A Game of Cat and Mouse
by Prince-in-Disguise
Summary: Rocket Raccoon is still recovering from his abduction at the hands of a cold, unfeeling business man. Now it looks like someone else is out to get him. Rocket's fellow Guardians will do anything to protect him, but this kidnapper has strange abilities that will make saving their furry little friend very difficult for them. Sequel to my "How to Buy Happiness" story.
1. Trouble Follows Me

**Author's Note:** **This is the sequel for my other Rocket-centric fanfic, "How to Buy Happiness". I know I said it was going into the slow-cooker, but I was bombarded with ideas this weekend, so here's what I have so far...  
**

* * *

"That's five! One of yours, G'mora?" Rocket Raccoon asked as he landed out of his graceful blaster-kickback-turned-backflip to stand back to back with the green-skinned assassin, the only other person in the area who was on his side.

"Honestly, Rocket?" she huffed, backhanding an approaching thug almost casually. "Why would I have a bounty on my head? I am on seven!"

"Wh— _seven_!? Well, the last gaboon – what was his name? I forget – anyway, _he_ was after you!" the raccoon retorted, strategically picking off the more dangerous-looking enemies using his latest weapons of choice – two unfeasibly large blasters he'd lovingly dubbed "the twins" – because the only thing better than having a great big gun was having _two_ great big guns, right? "There we go, _nine_!"

"That was different, we all know who put him up to it," Gamora muttered, swinging her sword in a wide arc, cutting down enemies. " _Eleven_! You, on the other hand, have a reputation _and_ a mountain of unpaid debts!"

"A _mountain_?" Rocket repeated innocently. "C'mon, G'mora, ya know it's more like a... small asteroid... of debt... I mean, nothin' that coulda caused... _this_!" He blasted a few more mercenaries. "Hahahaha, _eleven_!"

And suddenly it was down to one last thug, who looked thoroughly intimidated by the angry little raccoon and the cold-eyed green warrior woman. His eyes rolled to the back of his head as a blast of electricity dropped him to the ground.

"Hey guys," said Peter Quill, also known as Star-Lord, lowering his blaster with a grin, "what'd I miss?"

"That one counts as _mine_!" Gamora and Rocket shouted at the same time. Both of them looked a little startled, then glared at one another.

* * *

"Everyone I owe money wants me _dead_ ," the talking raccoon bragged, gesturing with his glass. He was in a state of drunken talkativeness and Gamora secretly thought this was her favourite version of Rocket. "An' I _clearly_ heard the one flarknard say to take us alive, so nope! _Definitely_ not one'a mine!"

When he wasn't trying to blame ambushes on her, that is...

"Are you sure there isn't something you're not telling us?" Peter pressed, studying Gamora's face. His gentle eyes held some concern, to be sure, but right that moment, he was clearly intent on teasing her.

"Excuse me," she said quietly and went to sit by herself.

From her seat at the bar, she could see everyone in the establishment. The team was out celebrating getting their first big money contract that wasn't somehow directly or indirectly involved with the Nova Corps. And by big money, she meant six digits.

But Gamora wasn't in the mood for celebrations tonight. The last time a bounty hunter came looking for her, it had been a political thing, and that had died down a while ago. They hadn't had a bounty hunter problem for months... until recently. Tonight's ambush had not been the first or even the second. It seemed that everywhere they went, local bounty hunters were practically lining up to ambush the Guardians of the Galaxy and perhaps they _were_ after her. She bit her lip. _Perhaps_ , but it wasn't Thanos' style... and this bothered her. She couldn't simply ignore something like this, though. She did not want to place her fellow Guardians in danger if this was indeed her fight...

"Why so distraught, beautiful?" a voice said out of nowhere.

Gamora started, then frowned at how she'd let the stranger sneak up on her like that. She darted a look at her team before giving the man the eye.

"Well, that depends on who's asking," she replied, lowering her long lashes in a perfectly demure display. If this was another bounty hunter, she was looking forward to kicking his too straight teeth in for him.

"Cruz Mornington, at your service," he smiled much too soppily, "I happen to be—"

Right on cue, a rude little voice interrupted from the Guardians' booth.

"Yo, G'mora, this clown botherin' you?" Rocket asked, swaggering on over like only he could on that pair of short raccoon legs. He hoisted himself up onto the bar stool between her and the stranger like it was totally his business who Gamora shared her drinks with. Of course, with Gamora having given the reject signal, it actually _was_ Rocket's business.

Gamora stifled a laugh at the man's appalled expression.

"And you are...?" the man prompted, raising one eyebrow.

"Name's Rocket!" the raccoon slurred. "Want sumthin' blown up, I'm yer guy!"

"Rocket?" the man parroted.

"'s whad I said, ain't it?" Rocket replied bluntly.

"And you're a r—"

"Ah-ah-ah, don't use the 'r'-word!" the intoxicated raccoon admonished with an exaggerated waggle of his index finger. He lowered his voice and went on in a confiding tone: "...'cause then I'd hafta kill ya."

"Er... well... I've never seen anything like you before, sir," the man who had introduced himself as Cruz Mornington remarked, suddenly jovial, "let me buy you all a round of drinks!"

Rocket couldn't be happier at the offer, but Gamora was instantly suspicious. Something in the man's face and manner had changed and she didn't like it. She watched the man closely as he ordered drinks for everyone. He made no move to touch her drink, but she noticed the way he handled Rocket's glass. For a split second before passing it on, the man had it out of their line of sight. Just long enough to, say, spike the drink... Rocket reached for the glass eagerly, but Gamora placed her hand over the top of the glass.

"I think you've had quite enough, Rocket..." she warned with a strained smile.

"What are ya, my mom all of a sudd'n!?" the loud-mouthed raccoon complained.

"Oh, let the fellow drink!" the overbearing stranger enthused. "He looks like he can hold his liquor like a real man!"

She felt a stab of irritation as Rocket agreed quite vocally.

"You're such a generous man," Gamora said through gritted teeth, "I'll let you have the first sip."

"O-Oh," the man spluttered, "I simply couldn't...!"

Cruz Mornington, if that was even his name, was turning a little pale. He wet his lips nervously as his eyes darted this way and that, hunting for an excuse. Despite his alcohol-induced haze, Rocket was finally beginning to see the big picture. He turned a murderous frown on the stranger sitting next to him.

"Yeah, tough guy," Rocket growled, pushing the glass forward menacingly, "go on, drink it!"

An ugly expression crossed the man's face before he swiped the drink off the table. The glass shattered on the floor and the contaminated drink splattered everywhere. The man jumped off the bar stool and fled the scene. From the corner of her eye, Gamora could see Drax and Groot following. Peter came up to stand next to Gamora and Rocket, eyeing the pair with concern.

"Uh... What just happened...?" Peter asked carefully.

"That lowlife was trying to drug Rocket," Gamora replied. She turned to the stunned raccoon and whispered: "I guess they _were_ after you all along."

"Krutacking son of a— Now I'm _sober_!" Rocket groaned, vigorously rubbing his face.

It didn't take Groot and Drax long to return from their excursion. They'd caught the man, threatened to "put their fingers to his throat" as Drax so eloquently described, and the man had sworn by his rather extensive ancestry that he did not know the name of his employer, only that he had to "get the raccoon called Rocket" and would be contacted about delivery and payment.

"Sneaky bastards," Peter grunted. "Rocket, buddy, we're gonna have to be more careful. At least until we find out who put up that bounty on you."

"Oh, _please_ don't go into babysitter mode on me now, Pete!" Rocket practically wailed, pulling at the fur of his cheeks in frustration. "We've got a big job comin' up! Yer _not_ cutting me out! Ain't no way I'm sitting on the ship twiddling my frickin' thumbs while you guys have all the fun!"

"Okay, okay," Peter said after being subjected to a full minute of fierce raccoon frown therapy, "but we'll work in teams – nobody goes it alone!"

"Tch, fine by me!" Rocket huffed, arms crossed dramatically.

The celebrations were cut short that night, much to Rocket's disappointment, but even he had to admit that they shouldn't be taking any chances. At least not until they were back in orbit.

* * *

That night, Gamora had trouble sleeping. Whenever she closed her eyes, she found herself reliving Rocket's abduction at the hands of Septimus Brandt. She tasted again that helpless feeling of not knowing where to search or whether her small, furry friend was even alive. Her mind kept replaying that moment when they finally found him, the sight of the bruised and beat up little raccoon stumbling towards them with such unguarded relief in his eyes making her heart twist painfully again and again. It had taken everyone a while to get over what had happened. After hours of tossing and turning, she decided to head to the cockpit and look at the stars. There was an odd sort of comfort in realizing just how small you were in the vast reaches of space.

When she made it to the top of the ladder, she found that someone else had had similar ideas. Rocket was sitting with his knees drawn up under his chin and his tail wrapped around his legs, staring out into space. She cleared her throat before approaching, but he still jumped a little at the sound.

"Are you all right?" she asked quietly.

Her question was met with silence. She was about to give up on getting any sort of reaction from her little raccoon friend when he let out a heavy sigh and turned to face her. His eyes were glistening just a bit, his whiskers quivering almost imperceptably. He looked so vulnerable and, somehow, smaller than ever.

"Dammit, G'mora, I thought I was done with this," he murmured.

"You know you can talk to me, Rocket," she said softly.

Months after recovering from the kidnapping, Rocket had spent many a long night sitting here in the cockpit with Gamora, just like this. Sometimes they sat in silence, sometimes talking, sometimes weeping. She had been taken aback by how quickly the stubborn, prideful little rascal had opened up to her during that time. Thinking back, she marvelled at how she could have thought she knew him before those nights, when, back then, she'd only known his facade. Even more surprising was how easy it became for Gamora to open up to him – a fellow lost soul that the rough side of life had seen fit to trample over.

She realized with a start that it would have been easier for her to deal with if it really had been _her_ they were after instead of Rocket.

"Thanks, G'mora..." Rocket breathed.

They didn't talk much at all that night. Instead, by morning, or what passed for morning in space, Peter found Rocket and Gamora sitting slumped together, shoulder to shoulder, snoring peacefully.

* * *

Sitting in the darkened room, the girl's mouth tightened angrily. Daddy had returned empty-handed _again_. She ran her thumb over the enlarged photograph of the cute little talking raccoon absently. It was a better habit than biting her nails.

She knew Daddy loved her very much, but he was making excuses. She could tell by the way he pulled at his hair. She could tell by the way his voice wavered. That first day, after failing to get her the cute little talking raccoon, Daddy brought her a cat.

But she hadn't wanted the cat. Poor cat.

She reached for the headset. She would have to take matters into her own hands.

Before Daddy brought her another cat.

* * *

"Flark it, they've already started nesting up here, too," Rocket remarked, "Better blow it up, fast."

"Sure thing," Quill agreed as they neared the lump of oversized honeycomb, "You're the demolitions expert. You do your thing and I'll keep watch."

And with that, Quill parked himself on a nearby boulder and played watchdog.

"They're actually paying us to blow stuff up! Gotta love this job!" Rocket laughed, rubbing his hands together. "Whoa, that is some ugly glark right there..." He tentatively stepped up to the huge wax structure. The nest was riddled with hexagonal shapes the size of a man. Well, that made sense, considering the ugly buggers that lived there were about as tall as one. The raccoon poked a fingertip to the red honey contained in the comb in front of him. It felt warm to the touch. It wobbled like jelly. He snatched back his hand and made a face. "Gross... Can't believe people eat this on their toast!"

He pulled the charges from his pack and set to work, placing them all around the nest, as close to the combs as he could make himself go. The theory was that, if the nest was removed, the giant space-faring insects would stop considering the planet a safe haven and migrate to a new, hopefully uninhabited, world. Rocket was still in favour of just blowing the whole swarm up in a glorious blaze - infestation dealt with! But according to contract, they weren't technically allowed to kill the giant bees. Endangered species, or some such garbage.

"Quill, I'm gonna start arming 'em," he announced, dusting off his hands on his trademark orange jumpsuit, "so if ya don't wanna be covered in— Quill...?"

Rocket felt his ears fly back and his stomach drop as he turned around and was greeted with the most hideous sight. Towering over the small raccoon was a bee-like bug the size of a horse. Its multi-faceted eyes held no expression that Rocket could read, but its feelers quivered in agitation. Did it know he was planning on blowing its nest to smithereens? Could it even see him, or was it here to store honey and he was simply in the way? The worst of it was not the size difference between the raccoon and the giant insect – Rocket had taken down much bigger monsters – the worst was that his pack, holding the remainder of the charges and also his weapons, lay just out of arm's reach.

"Hey, big fella, I'll er... get outta yer way..." Rocket tried his best to seem non-threatening as he casually sidestepped in the direction of his pack.

He gasped as the thing's arms lurched forwards and latched onto his wrists. Two more arms wrapped around Rocket's torso and wrenched him into the air. Alarmed, Rocket opened his mouth to shout for help when the bee monster's ribbon-like tongue shot out and twisted securely about his muzzle. Eyes wide and mouth sealed shut, Rocket hung there at the mercy of the monstrous bug. His legs were still free, so he kicked with all his might, but the insect's mighty arms would not budge, no matter how the raccoon's toenails scrabbled against them.

The monster started moving on its two remaining legs, walking Rocket backwards in the direction of the nest. A warm, wet feeling crept upwards from his tail, and, straining to look in that direction, he saw that his tail was already halfway submerged in the thick, red honey that filled one of the wax hexagons behind him. Breath coming hard and fast through his nose, Rocket realized that the thing meant to push him into the honeycomb, into that thick, gooey substance. Fighting with everything he had, the raccoon managed to clamp his claws around the outer edges of the hard wax hexagon. The insect strained forward, trying to break his hold, but the feisty raccoon was now clinging stubbornly with hands and feet for dear life.

Heart hammering, he tried to open his mouth to call out, to alert Quill, but his jaws were locked down tight by the broad, flat tongue twined around his muzzle.

He settled for making as much noise in his throat as possible. A desperate " _Mmmrph_!" was all he managed to get out. Hopefully Quill would hear that something was wrong and get this thing off him. If that frickin' humie wasn't blasting away his eardrums with those d'ast headphones of his, Rocket despaired.

Just then, he heard it over the sound of his own laboured breathing – a soft groan. His eyes darted past the insect monster and found the crumpled form of Peter Quill. The thing must have knocked him down. But he was stirring. Abruptly, the tongue untangled itself from its tight grip on the struggling raccoon's snout. Rocket wasted no time.

"Quill, help— _urgh_?!"

Everything around him was wet and warm and sticky as the monster let go of Rocket's one wrist and used its free arm to shove the raccoon's head back, into the honey. Rocket felt panic as the thick jelly crawled into his still-open mouth and down his throat, encasing him from within as well as without. His legs were still free, and his one arm still clung tenuously to the edge of the honeycomb. But his body was tiring. His struggles grew weaker. The warm wetness suffused his clothing and soaked his fur until he was aware of nothing else but the slow crawl of the thick jelly, in through his nose, down, down his throat.

Was this what drowning felt like? He was warm all over. _Maybe... I should just... go to sleep..._ No, no, no, that was _not_ a good idea! His mind knew this, but his body protested. His wide eyes could see nothing but a haze of red. _So tired..._ His eyelids gradually closed of their own accord. He felt his grip on the wax edge slipping. _No, keep fighting!_ He kicked frantically as more and more honey seeped into him. It was filling up his nostrils. There was nowhere left for it to go, but the thick jelly kept pressing in on his rapidly tiring body like it was trying to crush him and it felt uncomfortably warm. _Sleep... just... for a little while..._ His fingers slid off the honeycomb edge and he was plunged deeper into the thick wall of jelly. _Yes, sleep... sounds good... so good..._ The exhausted raccoon kicked feebly and was still.

And then sunlight cracked the solid red darkness wide open.

"Rocket!"

Voices. Someone was calling his name...

"Oh, man, R-Rocket, please wake up!"

"Be still, Peter, you're hurt!"

"But—But Rocket!"

Lying on his side, Rocket hunched in on himself and began coughing up large chunks of thick red honey.

"Thank goodness..."

"...am Groot..."

"...hope he will be all right..."

Rolling over onto his stomach was a monumental effort. Propped up on trembling forearms, Rocket expelled the rest of the sticky liquid from his lungs in what was probably one of the longest coughing fits of his life. His head swam. He tried to turn around and sit up, to look his rescuers in the eye, to yell at them for taking so long, to thank them for just getting him _out_... but he was so tired. He was aware of the world tilting sideways before everything went black.

* * *

Gamora narrowed her eyes as she watched the last of the alien bees pick up sections of their nest and fly off, first slowly, then faster and faster, accelerating until they could breach the planet's atmosphere. She had never seen anything like it. But something was off about this whole thing. Why would the giant insect sting Peter, who wasn't threatening its nest at all, but grab Rocket, unharmed, and try to stuff the raccoon into the honeycomb when _he_ had been the one tampering with the nest? And where had that straggler come from? All the bees were supposed to be off gathering pollen. That was why they chose this time of day specifically! Where had this one come from? And all by itself?

"Why would that thing target Rocket in such a way?" she mused. The sticky, bedraggled raccoon was sleeping in Groot's arms, completely oblivious to the fact that he'd almost gone for a ride in a giant alien bug's honeycomb spaceship.

"Perhaps the creature mistook the small one for one of its offspring, fallen out of the nest," Drax offered.

"Wh-What!?" Peter gasped, sitting up and wincing as the movement pulled the bandages taut over the wound in his chest. They'd patched him up as best they could, but the medical team was en route to give him some proper care. Left untreated, those bee stings could be fatal. Already, the half-terran's complexion was unhealthily pale and Gamora did not miss the tracks of sweat creeping down his temples. "That's crazy! He's a raccoon, not an insect! There's, like, _no_ family resemblance at all!"

"Drax might be right. Their young _are_ covered in fur, after all," Gamora conceded. "And Rocket _was_ standing very close to the nest when it found him..."

But something still bothered the green assassin. She went back to once more survey the area where she had come to Rocket's rescue just in time. The carcass of the bee she'd cut neatly in half was still lying right where she'd left it. The nest she'd carved open to free the unconscious little raccoon lay steaming in the sun. The honey, thick and paste-like, was hot to the touch. If she hadn't been so busy arguing with Peter over the comms about bounty hunters, he might have seen the insect coming and all of this could have been avoided. But Gamora was not the kind of woman who allowed herself to dwell on "what if"s and "could have"s. She knew all too well that the moment she lost herself to that kind of thinking would be the moment of her undoing.

She was, however, a cautious and suspicious woman by nature. She pulled out a small vial and scooped up a sample of the honey Rocket had been trapped in. She then screwed the lid back on and took out another vial. This one she filled with honey from one of the crushed honeycombs lower down, on the far side of the nest, one Drax and Groot had been in the process of destroying before answering her distress call. She pocketed both samples for later analysis.

Just in case, she told herself. A little caution never killed anyone.

By the time she rejoined the others, the medical team had arrived and were taking care of Peter's injury. Her silly human was theatrically exaggerating the foul taste of the anti-toxin syrup the medics were trying to give him.

Her eyes travelled to the far more serious examination that was happening in Groot's arms. Rocket's eyes were closed, his usually big mouth hanging open only ever so slightly, with just a hint of the pink tongue showing. His ears drooped and his wet fur was matted all over with the sticky, gel-like honey that covered his limp little body from head to tail. Something about the scene reminded her of a photograph of newborn kittens Peter had shown her once, back when he thought he could discover her "girl weakness", as he called it. Apparently Peter Quill believed that all women had a secret thing they were squeamish over, like frogs or snakes or horror movies. Gamora had humoured him in order to be sociable. She still couldn't make herself tell him that never in her life had she been able to afford being squeamish.

It worried her that the sleeping raccoon did not stir even as the doctor injected an anti-toxin shot into his bloodstream. Normally, he would fight an injection tooth and nail. When she asked them about it, their diagnosis was heat exhaustion. That made sense, Gamora thought, remembering how hot the honey inside the comb had been when she pulled Rocket out. Someone had already removed Rocket's clothes and given Groot an icepack to cool down the lethargic raccoon. The next step was getting Rocket out of the sun.

Deciding that she would give Peter time to rest, the green-skinned assassin turned away to fetch the Milano.

As she brought the ship closer, Gamora finally allowed herself a small shudder. It scared her how close she'd come to losing two of her family members. Had she been a few minutes slower... On instinct, she closed off that line of thought.

Peter was alive.

Rocket was going to be fine.

Her new family was still whole.


	2. Connection Lost

**Author's Note:** **This is the second chapter of the sequel for my other Rocket-centric fanfic, "How to Buy Happiness". I think I might have had a little too much fun with this...**

* * *

When Rocket Raccoon finally stirred from his exhausted slumber, the first thought he had was that he must be spectacularly hung over. His head throbbed with a bloated sort of headache – the kind that has you convinced your brain is about to explode. His throat was raw and sore, but something was preventing him from swallowing. He wanted nothing but to curl himself into a ball and sleep forever, but found his movements restricted.

 _Where... am I?_

He dragged his eyes open, but all he could see was a dark red haze – a tunnel...? – with a faint, hexagon-shaped light somewhere ahead. He knew panic as he found himself encased in a wall of thick, unyielding jelly. He tried to scream, but managed only to produce a stream of little bubbles, sluggishly floating up and out of his sight as the viscous red honey around him wasted no time in filling up the small space vacated by his last snatch of air.

Strangely, despite the discomfort of the honey pressing down on him on all sides, he was not suffocating, only hot and drowsy. _This is a bad dream..._ _Just... go back to sleep..._ His eyelids were just fluttering closed once more when a noise snapped him back into wakefulness.

 _IS IT FOOD, MOTHER? CAN WE EAT IT?_ he felt more than heard the inhuman voice, like the rustle of something crawling through dead leaves. There was a sense of mandibles clicking together eagerly and Rocket felt his hackles try to rise.

 _No, darling, this isn't food_ , came a different, much calmer voice, a female voice, speaking soothingly to the first. _This isn't for eating. This is for protecting._

 _PROTECT? IS IT PRECIOUS? LIKE HATCHLINGS?_ the alien voice droned and Rocket shuddered. Were they talking about him?

 _Very precious, darling_ , the softer voice cooed. _Protect him, and bring him to me..._

 _YES, MOTHER_ , the rasping voice hissed obediently. _WE WILL GUARD THE SMALL FURRY THING WITH OUR LIFE._

Rocket felt a sick twist in his gut as he realized they were indeed talking about him. _This is bad, flarking bad...!_ He had to get away, he had to move! He strained to kick out with his legs – if he could just manage that, he could swim out of this sticky mess and make a run for it. But the hot jelly clung to him and the more he tried to move, the more solid the gelatinous mass around him seemed to become. He was too preoccupied with fighting the stiff, disgustingly cloying goo that held him to care that fat drops of water were accumulating in his eyes and floating away from his face weightlessly, much like his air bubbles had done. Pride be damned; however hopeless it seemed, he had only one thing going through his head over and over and over: _Escape! Escape!_

Suddenly, he was aware of two screams echoing over one another, one like paper being torn violently in two, the other a high-pitched wail. Again it was more like feeling the screams somewhere in the back of his mind rather than actually hearing them. The raccoon was fairly certain the honey clogging his ears was keeping him from hearing any sound at all.

He did not cease or slow his frantic struggles, especially when he saw a pair of grasping, green hands reaching for him.

 _Get away! Leave me alone!_

The hands closed around him.

 _No! Get off! Let go of me!_

He squeezed his eyes shut... and sat up with a gasp.

 _OK, where the hell am I now...?_ he wondered, giving the dark and unfamiliar room a hunted once over.

He was inside an ancient-looking castle, he guessed, going by the ramparts partly visible through the iron lattice covering the tall window to his right. Even in the darkness, his keen raccoon eyes could make out a majestic four-poster bed occupying most of the room. On the far wall was a collage made from photographs of... He squinted, then recoiled when he saw that all of them were the same picture of him printed in different sizes, some full-sized, some cut out haphazardly.

 _W-Why the flark is my mug plastered all over the frickin' wall!?_ He subconsciously reached up to tug at his fur when he found a strange contraption on his head. Horrified, he ripped the thing off and flung it across the floor.

For a split second, a flash of two unfocused eyes with large red irises and pinprick pupils filled his vision. Or that was what he thought he saw.

Then, almost immediately, everything went black...

Rocket stirred.

He felt exhausted and his head throbbed with a bloated sort of headache – the kind that has you convinced your brain is about to explode. His throat was sore, but for some reason he had trouble swallowing. He just wanted to curl up in a ball and sleep forever, but he found that he couldn't move...

 _What...? Where...?_

His eyes flew open and he was trapped inside the honey again.

The nightmare repeated itself.

Over and over and over.

* * *

The air-conditioned interior of the Milano seemed to help with Rocket's heat exhaustion. The raccoon's heart rate had come back down to what they'd come to know as his normal pace. Gamora had helped Groot scrub all the honey out of Rocket's fur in a shallow basin – he was probably cleaner now than he had ever been in his life, she thought with some amusement. But something was still wrong. It bothered her that Rocket would not wake. He twitched in his sleep, gasped and sometimes moaned, but did not open his eyes.

Absently, she stroked her fingers over the softest bits behind the sleeping raccoon's ears. Unless it was her imagination, Rocket had developed a slight fever, too. She would have to dig up that thermometer to be certain.

"How's our patient doin'?" Peter asked, grunting as he plunked himself down on the bunk next to her – she did not miss how he barely managed to turn 'falling' into 'sitting down fast' – and casting a worried look at the raccoon.

"You mean our _other_ patient," Gamora pointed out with a teasing half-smile.

"Yeah, yeah, rub it in," Peter grimaced, then started and scanned the room nervously for Drax, who just might decide to take him literally.

Peter's left arm was in a sling so as not to aggravate his injury. The gigantic bee had stung dangerously close to his heart. They were lucky the wound was not deep – those stingers were like shortswords – and that the medics had arrived before the poison could spread too far. With all of this in mind, the Guardians of the Galaxy had decided not to leave the planet's surface just yet, in case someone still needed further medical assistance. Other than being drained from enduring the insect's toxin, Peter seemed to be all right. Rocket, however...

"Has he opened his eyes at all?" their self-appointed leader asked seriously.

"No," Gamora admitted quietly, then, looking up from the unconscious furball, she added, "I'm worried, Peter."

"Maybe we should take him to a hospital," he suggested finally.

They both looked down at their stubborn little team mate, who almost seemed like he was fighting something in his sleep. Gamora knew how much Rocket hated doctors, but she couldn't stand seeing him so helpless. She hardened her resolve and gave Peter a curt nod.

"He won't be happy," Peter remarked, preparing to haul himself to his feet, but Gamora forestalled him with a hand on his good shoulder.

"Sit," she urged. She had to remind herself that she was dealing with more than one male ego here, so she changed her approach from "Rest a while," to: "I can handle it. You look after him for a while..."

"Yes, Ma'am," he enthused.

She could practically hear the leer in the man's voice. _Typical..._ She rolled her eyes, trying to decide whether she wanted to laugh at his tenacity or give him a good slap as she headed for the cockpit. _Half dead and still ogling my ass..._

* * *

She was close now. So close...

 _Quit struggling!_ she thought angrily as her cute little raccoon opened his mouth to call for help. _Be still!_

Helpfully, her bee provided a means to quiet him down without harming him.

She felt a little sorry for the human. She hoped the bee sting didn't kill him, but he'd been in the way and she couldn't let him warn the others. She couldn't afford to fight them. It was taking most of her strength to fight the bee's natural instincts to tear the fluffy little intruder apart. Naturally, it was concerned for its nest, but she'd managed to charm it. With the help of the headset, _she_ was in control. Now all she had to do was keep it from eating her cute little raccoon until he was ready for transport. He was so small, even smaller through the bee's perspective, but still he resisted her at every opportunity.

She finally had him subdued when a sharp, blinding pain shot across her abdomen— no it was the bee's abdomen. She felt its terror at being cut in half. _I don't want to die!_ She wasn't sure if that thought belonged to her or the bee, she just knew that she was terrified and possibly dying along with the insect she was controlling.

So she did something she'd never done before – she... leapt. Her impact with the unconscious raccoon's mind was something akin to a bug hitting a wind shield. Dazed, she stared at where her consciousness had landed. The headset was made for communing with the bees, nothing else!

She was unsure how long she stayed there, trying to peek into his mind, searching for a crevice through which to enter. It wasn't like she could see anything from out here – he was shrouded from her somehow. But the possibilities were enough to make her eyes glaze over... If she could just get inside—

A hand shook her awake. Slowly, she blinked her eyes open. She was surprised to find the headset lying on the floor, as though she'd flung it away. Maybe she had, when she tried to escape the bee's death. She'd never felt death before – not like that...

"Myra, dear, are you all right?" the old housekeeper asked, concern written all over her leathery, age-worn face. "You've been sitting like that for hours!"

She wet her lips.

She _had_ been somewhere. Just not _here_.

"I'm fine, Nan," she whispered with a secret smile, eager for the old woman to leave so that she could try again, "just fine..."

* * *

Rocket woke with a start. The room was dark, but it wasn't that room inside the primitive castle from his nightmare. If anything, this was much, much worse. Instantly, his senses were assaulted by the too-clean smell of sterilising agents and the sound of a heart monitor beeping in time to his racing little heart. The disoriented raccoon felt a chill that had nothing at all to do with the temperature of the room.

Medical facility! A hospital or a lab, the fear-crazed raccoon didn't really care which. This is where you get torn apart and put back together over and over and over and over and—

 _Please let this be another nightmare...!_ Almost without thinking, he ripped the needle from his arm with trembling fingers, trying not to flinch at the sharp twinge his action caused. Clumsily, he rolled off the bed. The moment he left the matress, the heart monitor went from a steady, if slightly frantic beat to an all out flat-lining screech – he must have disconnected the sensor. Now they would come for him. The humie-sized bed was higher than he anticipated, and he landed badly, jarring something in his shoulder.

Instinctively, he began to squirm as a pair of huge hands scooped him up off the floor. Despite the numb pain in his shoulder, he fought like a wild thing, biting and clawing desperately.

"Get off me! Let _go_!" he cried, not caring that his voice broke just a little on the last word.

"I am Groot?"

He froze at the familiar voice of his closest friend. He became aware of Groot's stick-like fingers scratching at the back of his neck, a soothing feeling, the way the tree man always calmed him when the raccoon had a panic attack. Rocket went limp with relief and the wooden giant gently placed him back down on the bed. Someone switched the lights on and Rocket had to squint to get a good look at the group of people piling in through the doorway – of course it was his crew. Gamora looked weary – the only reason he could tell was due to a tightness around her eyes that he'd come to know as one of her signs. Star-Lord looked rather dishevelled in general, with dark circles under his eyes and his hair sticking up in all directions like he'd just gone to sleep anywhere he could lay down his head. It would have been funny, Rocket thought, if it wasn't for the fact that they were sleeping in this wretched place to be close to _him_.

The only one besides Groot who didn't look like they'd had a rough night was Drax the Destroyer, who would normally sleep through anything. Rocket thought he could fire the Hadron Enforcer right next to him and the man would sleep on. Unless there was danger lurking – then the tattooed powerhouse could go on for hours on end without sleeping a wink. Rocket sort of envied him that ability.

Gamora strode over and promptly silenced the shrieking heart monitor. He saw her wave off a nurse, who'd popped her head through the door and now scurried off, most likely to tend to her other patients.

"Hey, Rocky," Quill croaked, sounding pretty beat up himself as he plopped down in the armchair opposite Rocket's bed, "how are you feeling?"

Rocket sat up, ready with a snappy remark about the sick caring for the healthy when the mother of all dizzy spells hit him. It took a couple of deep breaths and some fervent blinking before he could finally see straight. The headache his madly pumping adrenaline had been keeping at bay rushed back to the front of his skull and once more he thought that his brain might explode. His throat was raw, as though scalded by something hot. His stomach was also cramping something awful. He hoped they'd flushed all that disgusting honey from his system while he'd been out – he wasn't staying for that if they hadn't, but he would sure as hell be glad to know all of it was gone.

"I am Groot?" the tree man asked, placing his great wooden hand at Rocket's back.

"Ohhhh, my head..." Rocket lamented when he finally found his voice. "Nah, don't worry, I ain't about to be sick."

Groot looked unconvinced.

"I'm disowning every last one'a you losers, by the way," Rocket continued, rubbing his eyes. "Yeah, you too, Groot, don't act all innocent! Next time, ya don't take my fuzzy little ass to a frickin' hospital without my express, _written_ consent, ya got me!?"

"How are we supposed to obtain your written consent when you are unconscious?" Drax asked with a frown. He almost looked like he was hoping Rocket was speaking in metaphors.

"I am Groot," his tree friend pointed out calmly.

"I know, I know, he's got a point," Rocket groaned, "still, I don't have to like it!"

"Glad to see you're all right, Rocket," Gamora said warmly right next to him. She had been so quiet, the raccoon had almost forgotten her presence.

And then there was a long, awkward silence.

Rocket's ears twitched in frustration.

"So is anybody gonna bother tellin' me what the hell _happened_!?" he exploded, unable to take the strange mood everyone seemed to be in any longer. "The job – d'we get paid, at least?"

"We did..." Quill drawled, dragging out that one little word so long that Rocket could see the "but" coming all the way from the _other_ hill.

When it became clear that the information would have to be reeled out of their fur-less leader, Rocket sighed: "But?"

"We only got half the pay," Quill admitted, looking down and scratching his neck absently.

" _What_!?" Rocket shouted incredulously, ears drawing down. "Why?"

"I'm sorry – it's my fault," Gamora spoke up much too quickly for Rocket's liking. Gamora was usually the person on the team who held the moral high ground – which, incidentally, said a lot about the team in general if the cold-blooded killer was the one with the highest moral standards – and she usually admitted when she was wrong, but for some reason it bothered the raccoon that the dignified green assassin would take the blame so eagerly. "I broke contract by killing one of the insects. I know I should have tried to scare it off, but it'd stung Peter and was trying to harm you, so my first instinct was to kill it."

"So... what, no after-party 'cause they only paid us half?" Rocket asked flatly.

"You're not mad?" Gamora asked, blinking in surprise.

"Why the hell would I be mad?" Rocket retorted. "I mean, I love gettin' paid as much as the next guy, but ya saved me from becoming creepy crawly chow!"

 _Is it food, Mother? Can we eat it?_ The raccoon suppressed a shudder of revulsion at the sudden memory. _That wasn't real... that was a nightmare!_ He shook his head. _That wasn't real...! It wasn't! It wasn't!_ It was as if he could suddenly taste the honey coming down his throat and feel the sticky wetness all over his fur, making his skin crawl.

* * *

Rocket was sitting in the middle of his hospital bed tugging at his ears and shaking his head. He seemed to have forgotten everyone else around him. Gamora wanted to reach out to him, but the possibility of startling the distraught raccoon was too great. She looked up, saw Drax shaking his head ever so slightly, confirming her thoughts on approaching, and decided to speak up instead.

"Rocket," she said softly, then tried again, a little louder, "Rocket?"

When he didn't respond, she sent a pleading look to Groot, who nodded in understanding.

"I... am Groot?" the gentle giant cooed in the shaking raccoon's ear.

To everyone's relief, Rocket seemed to register the tree man's voice. He gave himself a shake before looking his large wooden friend in the eye.

"Nah, I need a stiff drink, is what I need," the bemused raccoon grunted, then rubbed at his eyes fiercely and frowned. "Screw that, I need a friggin' _bath_!"

"I am Groot," Groot offered with a smile.

"I can do it, ya big lug!" Rocket growled, but his tone held no heat and he allowed Groot to help him off the bed without complaints.

He trudged on over to the small bathroom compartment connected to his hospital room, frowning defiance all the way, as if daring the others to just try and tell him that he couldn't do it by himself. He reached up and opened the bathroom door, wincing slightly as though his shoulder pained him, then scampered on inside.

"That went well..." Peter remarked with a relieved sigh. "Don't you think?"

"Was I too obvious about it?" Gamora asked, worried.

"Let's face it," Peter replied quietly, "Rocket being Rocket, if he wants to blame himself for what happened, he probably will no matter _what_ we say. The best we can do is just be there for him when he needs us."

"Agreed," Drax responded immediately, "if anyone is to blame for the failure, it is Quill."

"Wh—Me!?" Peter spluttered, mouth working like a stranded fish.

Gamora was hard pressed not to chuckle.

"I am Groot," the big wooden man asserted with a happy grin.

"Wait, wait, wait," Peter exclaimed, hands raised defensively, "just how is any of this _my_ fault?"

Somehow, the more the legendary Star-Lord acted like a grown up kid, the more endearing he was to the smiling green assassin. She wasn't about to tell him that, though. The behaviour was only adorable when it was spontaneous.

"If Quill had been vigilant, the giant winged insect would not have been able to ambush him," Drax elaborated, "and our green assassin would not have dissected the beast and violated the terms of our contract."

Peter was just winding up to defend himself when they heard Rocket's cry and the sound of shattering of glass coming from the bathroom.


	3. The Reaching

**Author's Note:** **This is the third chapter of the sequel for my other Rocket-centric fanfic, "How to Buy Happiness". Some trippy scenes to follow...**

* * *

Rocket stomped into the bathroom and narrowly missed slamming his bushy tail in the door. He growled at it furiously before realizing just how silly that was – he wasn't mad at the door. He was mad about having to suffer through a krutacking migraine! He was mad at his team for treating him like he was made of glass! He was mad at them for dragging him off to a hospital and he was mad at Groot for letting them and he was mad at them all for caring so d'ast much that he couldn't really blame them for dragging him off to the frickin' hospital!

He was mad about being so damn short, he thought miserably as he stared up at the wash basin and mirror that was so far out of his reach it wasn't even funny.

He was so mad that he just had to flarking _kick_ something! The waste basket beside the toilet became his target. He grunted in frustration when he found that the stupid friggin' thing was fastened to the floor and he could get nothing more than a hollow ' _thump_ ' and a smarting toe out of it, much less the satisfying rebound and scattering of contents he was looking for. What he _really_ needed was an explosion – a _big_ one!

There was a loud, electric _pop!_ and the primitive light bulb in the ceiling fizzled and died.

"Oh, _seriously_?" he groaned. "What kind of a low class hospital _is_ this, anyway?"

Not that he had need of it. The bathroom was dark, but moonlight and a shaft of yellow light from a street lamp outside gave ample illumination for his eyes. His pupils dilated and drank in the pale light of the moon, making it easy for him to find his way in the gloomy tile room.

He still had that crawling feeling all over his skin. If not for the presence of the big old humie-sized toilet taking up most of the small space, Rocket thought he could have been forgiven for mistaking the place for another dark, tiled room, maybe an abandoned lab, with dark red fluids pooling on the too clean floor, with searching yellow lights flashing and a wounded creature seeking escape. The sound of the slightly leaky tap was overpoweringly reminiscent of the slow _tip tip tip_ of the mangled little furball's lifeblood leaving a slow trail— _Stop it!_ Rocket scolded himself, gritting his teeth until the reaching tentacles of fear subsided and he was aware of nothing but the pressure of his clenching jaw and the migraine blooming behind his eyes.

 _That's right, lock it away,_ he thought as he focused on controlling his breathing. _Never open that door again..._ He was _not_ about to lose himself in a flashback. Not so soon after making such a scene upon waking up in a strange hospital room... even if it had only been Groot who'd witnessed his panic.

His heart was already hammering his ribs so hard, he thought it just might break out. He considered making a run for it, back to the safe, warm light of the other room. He shook his head vigorously. _Pull yourself together, moron._ There was no way he was stepping back out of the bathroom now, not after putting on such a show of going alone and doing everything himself. There was no way Quill would ever let him live it down...

That wasn't the real reason.

He knew Quill and the others would not tease him about it and that was just it... They already thought he was an unstable, fragile little thing, there was no need to add 'frightened' to the list.

He took a deep breath. He just had to focus, get it done.

 _Bath, right..._ The unfamiliar setup threw him off a bit and for a moment he stood staring blankly at his surroundings, feeling a little lost. A tiny part of him wished that Groot had just insisted on helping him anyway. Somehow the task at hand seemed more daunting than escaping from a high security prison planet. _Pretty sure this job involves soap, water and taking my pants off..._

Blink _._

For a second, his hair stood on end as he thought he saw a shadow flit past the narrow, pebbled glass window. He dismissed it as a bat or some other nocturnal creature. He was not about to start jumping at shadows.

 _Okay... Let's just start with finding the krutacking soap._

When the soap wasn't readily visible beside the tub, he huffed angrily. Tail swishing from side to side, bristling, he decided to deal with the more pressing matter of his migraine first.

This was a hospital, right? So there had to be some painkillers he could swipe. _Now where would they hide a box of pills?_ His gaze travelled up, up, up to the cabinet behind the mirror above the basin. _Go figure._

Grumbling, he set to clambering onto the closed lid of the toilet bowl. He would make his way up to the basin from there. The smooth, polished ceramic felt slippery beneath his feet and for a while the only sounds were that of raccoon toenails clicking and his breath coming in frustrated little grunts as Rocket hoisted himself up onto the basin. He cursed violently when he slipped in the wet basin and knocked his head against its rim. Blinking away the purple stars filling his vision, he got to his feet, reached up and tore the small mirror cabinet open with more force than was strictly necessary.

Of course, it was empty.

"Flark, flark, _FLARK_!" Rocket swore savagely, slamming the cabinet shut.

For a moment he stood facing himself in the mirror. He was about to make a face at the deceptively cute masked bandit staring back at him when he caught a glimpse of bright red flashlight eyes and a too wide grinning mouth in the mirror beside his reflection. With a gasp, he spun, teeth bared... but there was no one behind him. A chill rippled up his spine. Something was telling him to turn back to the mirror. His heart jumped into his throat when he turned and saw, not his own reflection, but a stranger _inside_ the mirror, the figure's hand half-raised as if reaching for him, frozen as though his turning around had stopped the hand's advance.

 _I'm going mad I'm going mad I'm going mad!_ he thought, watching with morbid fascination as the hand started moving again, reaching, reaching toward him. Intricate cracks spider-webbed all across the surface of the mirror. And then the hand made a grab for him. His migraine spiked and the mirror exploded. With a cry, the startled raccoon staggered back, losing his footing on the rim of the sink.

 _White hot pain filled his being. He tried to throw his hand across his face to shield his eyes from the raining shards of glass. Instead, his muscles failed to respond and he was assaulted by a myriad of daggers biting into his nose, his skin, his left eye. His wounded eye felt like it was on fire. Hot blood trickled down his face on that side. He couldn't move – he was pinned down by something heavy and solid._ What's wrong with my arms? _he wondered dully as his uninjured eye drifted open..._ Daylight...? _he frowned. And then a violent wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm him as he saw the bloody stumps – all that remained of his arms!_ What the hell!? What the hell!? _he panicked as his gaze roved the scene of a horrific car crash. Someone else was trapped in the wreckage, too. A child, maybe six or eight years old. Rocket thought he recognized the boy. No, but that wasn't possible. Was that... Timmy?_

A blast of ice cold water hit him in the face, making him gasp and he took what felt like his first breath in hours. He coughed and tried to speak, but realized just in time that doing so would result in his body rejecting the contents of his roiling stomach. Instead, he concentrated on breathing – in and out, in and out. He clenched and unclenched his hands. _Good, still there._ He became aware of a stabbing pain all over his left hand, but at least he could feel his fingers.

Over the ringing in his ears, he began distinguishing voices.

"...out of your mind, Peter Quill!?"

"...had to do _something_ – he wasn't breathing!"

"Calm yourselves! Your bickering does him no good."

A big, warm hand gingerly brushed against his forehead and rested there for a couple of beats before it began stroking in a familiar pattern. Drax. Rocket felt his breath hitch before evening out as he instinctively leaned into the comforting touch. He had to open his eyes. The left eye no longer stung, but he had to make sure both eyes were intact. He got a blurry faceful of tattoos, telling the dazed raccoon that the Destroyer was indeed kneeling over him, it was still night time and both his eyes were, thankfully, still in working order.

"Heya, big guy..." he croaked. He couldn't believe how hollow his own voice sounded.

Taking in his surroundings, he saw that the door to the adjoining room stood open, allowing a broad swath of light to drive back the gloom. Rocket raised his eyes to seek out the others. The tiny bathroom seemed crowded with Quill, Gamora and Drax all towering over him. He could make out Groot's shadow in the doorway. If there had been more space, he was sure Groot would have been the first one inside. Rocket smiled faintly at the thought. Good old Groot...

"Can you stand?" Drax asked, serious and to the point as usual.

"'course I can, whaddaya take me for, an invalid?" Rocket retorted angrily. He tottered to his feet and was just about to start gloating when he crashed clumsily into the Destroyer's muscle-bound chest, limp as a rag doll. "S-Stupid legs...!"

"Of course you can..." Drax murmured. Was that a smile on the big man's lips? How dare he be amused!

He didn't fight the thick fingers combing soothingly through his fur any more than he fought the large man as he gathered Rocket up in his arms protectively. As he was lifted and carried off, the exhausted raccoon's eyes drifted closed. He resisted the beckoning oblivion of sleep, not because he was worried about what might happen out there in the real world – he knew he was surrounded by his adoptive family and he was safer with them than he had ever been on his own. No, what kept him straining to stay awake was the dread that there would be no end to the succession of strange dreams.

 _Don't want any more nightmares... Just let me sleep..._

* * *

Peter watched Gamora run her slim green fingers through Rocket's damp fur. Drax had placed him back on the bed and the little guy seemed to be sleeping. Peter was relieved that it was the good kind of sleep this time – the not-twitching-and-moaning and definitely-breathing-normally kind of sleep. He had to admit, when he discovered the raccoon's prone form slumped on the floor, not breathing, he didn't think, he just acted. At least he'd had the presence of mind not to try and move Rocket and, to his credit, the cold water _had_ helped. Any other time, the thought of dunking a glassful of freezing water on Rocket would be both dangerously hilarious and inevitably suicidal, but there was nothing funny about what had happened tonight.

Peter still wasn't sure exactly what had happened. From the cuts, scrapes and pieces of glass lodged in the raccoon's left hand and arm, it looked like he'd slammed his fist into the mirror. But why would he do that? And that still didn't explain how he'd ended up unconscious on the floor. It didn't make sense.

"He hates being fussed over," Peter remarked, hoping that he didn't sound too jealous.

Gamora turned around with a tiny smile that spoke volumes. _Dang, I sounded like I was jealous._ She came up to him and patted his cheek playfully.

"I know..." she replied. _Maybe I should act jealous more often..._ he thought with a grin. And just when Peter thought Gamora was actually reconsidering the nature of their relationship, she turned away. "Stay with him. I have something I need to do."

And with that, she left the room.

"I am Groot?" the tall tree man asked from the other side of Rocket's hospital bed.

"No idea," Peter shrugged, then immediately wished he hadn't when the movement upset the inflamed skin around his injury. The doctors had told him that the swelling should be down by tomorrow. And warned him that, then, the itching would start. "Should I take the first watch?"

"That is agreeable," Drax answered, making himself comfortable on the couch.

"I am Groot."

Not long after midnight, a frowning Gamora returned, following an unhappy doctor with a harassed expression. Peter's eyelids had just begun to grow heavy. He stood, glad for the distraction. He was less glad when he saw the doctor open his kit and take out tubes and a syringe. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Drax tensing, too, at the sight. So the man hadn't been sleeping after all.

"Whoa, whoa, hold on a second!" Peter exclaimed as the doctor approached the sleeping raccoon, and Groot's eyes popped open. "What's the big idea? Gamora, what does this dude want? Didn't you tell him how Rocket feels about," he lowered his voice and gestured emphatically, " _those_ things...!?"

"That's all I've been doing on the way over here," the green assassin retorted with hands on hips.

"This... 'dude' just needs to confirm something," the doctor said flatly, brandishing his syringe, "It's in the patient's best interest. It will be over before he knows it... unless you insist on waking him for it."

But Peter wasn't interested in anything the doctor had to say.

"Well, what did you bring him here for?" Peter shouted at Gamora, ignoring the protests of the doctor as he stepped between the raccoon and the offending needle.

"I had him run some tests—"

"Express – _written_ – consent," a disgruntled little voice interrupted dryly from behind him. "Thanks fer sticking up for me, Pete. I got this." The angered little furball turned his deadly frown on the doctor. "I didn't exactly have the best day, doc, so either ya get lost or I bite yer frickin' fingers off, one by one." He emphasized his point by baring a vicious set of canines.

Peter had never seen a doctor pack away his instruments with such alacrity.

The man left, pinching the bridge of his nose and muttering something about overprotective parents with three-year-olds being more reasonable. With varying degrees of enmity, the Guardians of the Galaxy watched him go.

The door slammed behind the retreating physician and Rocket rounded on Gamora.

"What's this about runnin' _tests_?" the raccoon asked, his tone ominously calm compared to the barely controlled rage simmering in his eyes.

"Rocket, I was just—"

"I wanna trust ya, G'mora, I really do," Rocket growled, ears drawn down flat, "but yer makin' it mighty difficult for me..."

Peter was surprised to see a hint of wetness in the raccoon's eyes. He looked from Rocket to Gamora and back. He knew the two had become close over the past few months. He'd never considered just how close. Surely not _that_ close... Gamora frowned at Peter like she knew what he was thinking, the way women usually did when he least wanted them to know what he was thinking.

But he wasn't the one in the wrong here, so he planted his fists in his sides and put on his best serious team leader face.

"Fess up, Gamora," he said firmly, "what are you hiding?"

All eyes were on her now. Even Groot was frowning disapprovingly. Or maybe it was Groot _especially_ , Peter amended, remembering how protective the tree man was of his small raccoon friend.

"I will explain, if you give me a chance to talk..." Gamora sighed, sitting down on the foot of the bed. Was it Peter's imagination or did Rocket edge away ever so slightly? "I'm not hiding anything. I took samples of the honey from yesterday. I had the doctor run tests on it, because I was afraid that there might have been something in the raw honey that was making you sick." Peter saw Rocket's expression soften, just a little. "He insisted on performing a toxicology screen and that's why he wanted a blood sample. For the record, I told him no."

To Peter's surprise, Rocket simply nodded and said: "Well, next time some lab coat wants to suck a sample outta me, you make with the ' _Stab, stab – those are my terms!_ ' on 'em, arright?"

 _Wait a minute..._ Peter thought, cheeks heating up. How did Rocket even know about that conversation?

The look of mischievous camaraderie that passed between Rocket and Gamora at that moment went over Peter's head, as he was too busy worrying whether there was a budding romance here that he wasn't aware of. Drax, however, was not one to let anything go over his head. He saw right through their little prank and gave an uproarious laugh.

When the Destroyer's laughter finally died down, Gamora decided to let the undignified Star-Lord in on the joke. Rocket, despite his seemingly improved mood, almost instantly went back to sleep. Sometime during the night, a nurse came to examine Rocket's arm and remove the glass splinters. He slept through it all, not even stirring when she bandaged him up and reinserted the IV under the watchful eyes of the rest of the Guardians.

* * *

The housekeeper found the girl in the bathroom, the shattered remains of the mirror surrounding her like a glittering halo of diamonds. Her eyes were open, but she was comatose. When she finally emerged from her trance-like state, she was in a severely dark mood. She would not talk about what happened. She spoke of nothing but her latest obsession.

Her father worried that she was losing control again.

He had better get his hands on that illusive little creature, sooner rather than later.

* * *

When Rocket next awoke, the needle was back in his arm, but instead of the wrist on his left hand, this time they'd inserted it into the crook of his right elbow. He discovered the reason quickly – his left arm was wrapped in bandages. Despite these minor annoyances, he found that he felt better; there was no trace of the migraine that had been trying so hard to make his brain burst, his stomach had calmed down and the freakish nightmares had not returned.

The hospital room was still dim – the sun had not yet risen – but Rocket could tell from the sound of some form of birds twittering cheerfully in the early-morning stillness that the night and its terrors had passed. Careful not to disturb the needle or his bandaged arm, he stretched out languidly and let out a long sigh.

Even before his sharp eyes located the big man, the raccoon smelled the familiar tang of Drax's sweat threaded through with the scent of a particular brand of herbal soap the man liked to use. The Destroyer's head was thrown back like he'd fallen asleep right where he was sitting on the the couch the others had dragged in from reception. The hospital staff had their hands full with this mismatched group of overprotective Guardians, Rocket thought with a smirk and no small amount of pride. Guardians of the Galaxy, causing mayhem wherever they went...

Just then, he noticed Gamora standing next to the bed, fiddling with his IV and Rocket felt his hackles rise. Why hadn't he picked up her scent? Had she been standing there the whole time?

"Hey, geddaway from that, you ain't a flarkin' nurse!" was what he wanted to say, but suddenly found it difficult to manoeuvre his tongue around in his mouth. Even parting his lips seemed about as much effort as picking up a fully grown Groot and throwing him. He rolled his eyes in the direction of the IV bag and saw a trail of bright blue that hadn't been there before, seeping down through the tube and into his arm. Gamora tossed the needle she'd used carelessly to the ground. She turned around and saw that the raccoon was conscious and staring at her in horror.

She smiled a cruel smile.

"Hey, Rocket Raccoon," she said in a low voice that definitely did _not_ belong to Gamora, "you and I are going for a little ride."


	4. Things I Could Never Do Before

**Author's Note:** **I apologize for the long wait, I have been busy writing exams. That's over now, so thanks for being so patient with me! Hopefully this extra long chapter makes up for the wait... Anyway, I wanted to thank each and every reader and reviewer for all the support I've been getting from you guys! Just knowing that there are people reading my story drives me to continue! Thanks, everyone!**

* * *

Rocket Raccoon was trussed up like a krutacking dinner bird and stuffed in a sack – he couldn't make himself remember the name of the thing Quill was always going on about during meals, but he knew enough to feel indignant at the comparison. Aside from the obvious offences of being taken against his will, dosed with a paralytic and tied up (as if his muscles would actually let him go anywhere for a while), Rocket was almost willing to rate this particular kidnapping his dullest experience yet. They were stuck in traffic, for flark's sake! If it wasn't for the panicked little voice in the back of his head he was desperately trying to keep from triggering him – _I gotta get outta here! I won't be made a prisoner again! I won't! Have to get out! –_ he might even have thought it was funny.

Of course, the traffic jam gave him time to make good his escape, or failing that, time for Quill and the others to discover that he was missing and, hopefully, figure out a way to find him before things got worse. So he fervently hoped for that big, garishly green truck that had jack-knifed up ahead to stay right where it was, blocking the road for another hour or two, or maybe just long enough for his strength to return so he could chew his way through the greasy rope wound around his wrists, elbows and ankles.

Even inside the smelly jute bag, the stifled raccoon had a fairly good idea of what was going on – the creep wearing Gamora's body was constantly talking to himself. Yep, however he was doing it, Rocket was pretty sure this was a guy. The man had gone on at length about the accident up ahead and where they were headed – some place called "The Keg", somewhere in the northern district that had really uncomfortable beds with lumpy mattresses. Apparently, the guy enjoyed telling his captive exactly what he was doing and why.

"I don't know what anyone would want such a wretched, unrefined little beast for," his captor nattered on like a gronad, "but the money is good. Very good. I might even be able to afford an early retirement. Spend some quality time with _her_..."

Rocket tried to block out the unnecessary details not-Gamora began sharing with him like it was commonplace for a kidnapper to discuss personal bedroom-business with his victim. If it was some kind of tactic designed to break him, it was failing miserably – Rocket's imagination had been subjected to much worse, having been exposed to the ladies man among all ladies men, Peter Quill. Compared to Star-Lord's escapades – stuff tended to slip out when you and your drinking buddy both thought the other one was keeping track of the number of drinks you had – this was really quite tame.

 _Really, why don't you just shut the flark up!?_ Rocket groaned inwardly.

"Blast, I forgot I should have muzzled the miserable creature!" the kidnapper muttered suddenly.

Rocket felt a stab of fear and the wave of feral panic he was trying so hard to keep at bay threatened to overpower him. How was he going to escape when his muscles finally started cooperating, if he was muzzled? Just thinking about the feel of a leather trap fastened tightly over his snout made him claustrophobic. His stomach clenched and he struggled to breathe. For a moment, he thought he could almost feel a collar slowly closing down on his windpipe. His heart thundered and his vision fuzzed around the edges.

Like all the times before, he was perfectly aware of what was happening to him, but powerless to stop it. It was like being at the crest of a wave or the top of a roller coaster, waiting breathlessly for the plunge. _Here comes the panic…_

 _Stop it! Deal with it!_ he thought at himself furiously. Panic was bad. Panic made you do stupid things. Panic turned you into an animal. If he was going to escape this situation, he would have to avoid panicking. Calm, he had to stay calm. _Don't freak the flark out, stay calm, just frickin' breathe…_

He thought of his team; they always carried him through when one of these attacks hit. He thought of Groot with his big naïve smile. Groot held him and scratched behind his neck when he panicked and it went away.

 _I am Groot..._ his big tree buddy would say, and that would carry more meaning than any other three words ever could.

He thought of Quill's inexplicably unconditional acceptance of what Rocket was, Quill who was the first one to treat him like a real person, Quill who didn't mind if Rocket bawled his eyes out all over the man's freshly laundered shirt. Quill rode the wave with him, and everything was fine.

He could almost hear the man's voice as if he were right there with him, saying: _You're not alone, bud. I've got your back, just like I know you'll always have mine. The Guardians, all of us, we're a family now._

He thought of Drax, who was, oddly enough, gradually becoming the father figure of the group. He and Drax had a code, familiar patterns the man would trace on Rocket's fur. The patterns had meaning, much like the tattoos that could be found on the man's own bald skin. The feel of the patterns brought Rocket back to himself and the panic stayed away.

 _If she harms you, I will pull out her spine._ Typical Drax.

He thought of Gamora and her ferocity to protect her new-found family. He could talk to her about just about anything without shame or fear of being judged, and in return, she trusted him with tears she spilled in front of no one else. He thought of all the sleepless nights spent in the cockpit of the Milano. He felt safe there. He concentrated on that warm feeling.

Calm. _That's it..._

Rapid, shallow gasps slowed to deep, controlled breaths. The dark spots faded from his vision and his frantically beating heart steadied itself. He was not sure exactly how he'd managed to avoid the usually inevitable panic attack, nor how much time had passed. All he knew for certain was that the paralysis drug was wearing off. He could already twitch his fingers and turn his head ever so slightly. Just a little longer and he would be out.

Rocket continued to focus his thoughts inward. He worked his muscles as, slowly, but surely, his strength returned.

His kidnapper was none the wiser. The flarknard kept up a running commentary of the world outside the musty jute bag, but Rocket blocked him out and concentrated on making as little noise as possible as he gnawed through the ropes that held him captive.

* * *

A storm was coming. Glancing out the window at the darkening sky impatiently, Peter Quill, also known as the legendary Star-Lord, couldn't shake the feeling that something bad was going to happen. A sense of dread was coiled up in his gut like a snake waiting to strike. He shifted uncomfortably.

"Sit still, Peter!" Gamora chided with a sigh. He could tell she was doing her darndest best not to roll her eyes at him.

Peter made an effort to hold still as she applied the ice cold gel to his fiercely itching torso. Some time after the nurse had come in to patch up Rocket's arm last night, Peter had fallen asleep, only to be woken in the early morning hours by the feeling of an army of fire ants crawling around under his skin. It felt like being eaten alive from the inside out.

"Dammit, they said it was gonna be bad," he groaned, "I didn't think it would be _this_ bad…! It feels like my whole skin's gonna come off!"

Gamora had dragged him to the nurse's office immediately for treatment, leaving Groot and Drax to watch over Rocket. A good thing, too, because during that small eternity it took the night nurse to find the correct ointment, the itching had intensified a thousand fold.

"Don't be such a baby," she retorted, but there was no real heat in her response and she was smiling, just a little.

"Quill?" a timid little voice piped up.

Surprised, Peter twisted around, despite Gamora's protests, to see Rocket peering at him from the darkened hallway, eyes bright with anxiety and ears drawn down.

"What's the matter, Rocky?" he ventured.

He was not sure where Gamora had disappeared to, but everything around him and Rocket was dark and cold. Were those the silhouettes of bars he saw in the distant gloom? The frightened raccoon was shivering and his eyes darted about the huge, shadowy cage surrounding them.

"It's coming, Quill," Rocket whispered frantically, clutching at his orange jumpsuit. "I-I-I can't stop it! Pete, I can't do this by myself!" Was that a collar around his friend's neck? In the way of dreams, Peter had difficulty getting it into focus, so he could not be sure.

Peter's stomach dropped as he took in Rocket's glittering eyes and his heaving little chest. This was the beginning of a panic attack. Most days, Rocket kept his cool just fine, but there were other times when something, usually a small and innocent-seeming thing, would trigger a memory, set him off. It had been a long time since the raccoon's last incident and Peter had secretly been hoping that he was getting better, maybe even cured completely. It was happening less and less, but these things didn't just go away with the wave of a magic wand.

The determined human didn't even think about what needed doing, he simply knelt and spread his arms wide.

"You don't have to," he assured his friend. This was not the first time Peter had helped Rocket weather a storm of this kind, after all.

Rocket hesitated.

"I-I'll slorb all over yer nice shirt!" the proud little thing threatened stubbornly, fat teardrops forming in the corners of his already brimming eyes.

Peter was a little stunned to find that he was indeed wearing his red leather coat and one of his favourite shirts. He could have sworn he'd taken them off for some reason, something about an allergic reaction he'd had, or something... but that wasn't important right now.

"Hey, they don't call me 'Star-Lord' for nothin', you know. I've been nominated for _'Superhero with the Most Outfits_ ' twice in a row now!" he grinned, adding a mischievous wink. "I mean, what's one more shirt between friends, huh?" He saw Rocket's nose twitch. The humorous approach was working.

Instantly the darkness dissipated and they were in the sunlit cockpit of the Milano, sitting on the floor, golden rays playing through the main window and catching the highlights in Rocket's fur. The warm, fuzzy weight in his arms was trembling slightly, the wet little face burrowed between his shirt and his jacket, seeking comfort.

"...can't do this alone," he heard Rocket murmur.

"You're not alone, bud," Peter said with such conviction that the raccoon in his lap pulled back to stare at him incredulously. His fluffy ears perked up and started twitching so fast, they almost seemed to be vibrating. "I've got your back, just like I know you'll always have mine. The Guardians, all of us, we're a family now. "

Abruptly he was back in the nurse's office, the skin on his bare chest and arms pebbled with goose bumps. _What the hell was that? A vision?_ Gamora was standing over him, staring into space, one hand hovering as if to touch something that was not there. Her emerald lips were slightly parted, her eyes wide and sparkling with unshed tears. Peter had never seen her so openly sad. Spellbound, he reached up to touch her cheek and she caught his wrist in that ruthless assassin grip of hers. _Moment officially spoiled_ , he thought ruefully. At least she was only gripping his arm, not trying to twist it off.

"Peter," she breathed urgently, releasing his wrist and taking him by the shoulders, "you saw it too, didn't you?" Her expression was intense as she searched his eyes.

"I think I... dreamed?" _For lack of a better word._ It _had_ been a bit like a dream. "Rocket was on the verge of a panic attack," he said slowly. "And I talked him through it..."

"Someone has taken him, Peter," Gamora growled. She slammed her fist down on the desk angrily, scattering the nurse's neatly arranged stationery. " _Right_ from under our noses, someone has taken him!"

* * *

Rocket flinched as the sack was wrenched open without warning. His kidnapper had lost all patience with their traffic predicament, it seemed. Behind the person usurping Gamora's body was the van's open side-door. Through it, Rocket could make out lanes of bumper-to-bumper traffic, the sidewalk, a park and a dark grey morning sky thick with rain clouds. The smell of moisture in the air filled the raccoon's nostrils, tickling his whiskers. Strangely, he still could not quite catch the scent of the grinning impostor before him. The sight of such an unfamiliar expression on Gamora's face unnerved him. Worse, when he spotted the syringe clutched between those slender green fingers, his heart skipped a beat.

"It's time for your shot, flea bag," the kidnapper said. It was quite a shock to hear him using Gamora's real voice after delivering monologue after monologue in his own, distinctly male voice. Rocket felt his ears flick in confusion.

But there was no time to consider this, not with another dose of paralytic looming over him. It was time to move. If not-Gamora thought he was dealing with a restrained raccoon, well, he had another thing coming… Rocket darted out of the sack, past the lithe green body crouched over him and out the beckoning door of the van towards freedom. There was a shattering of glass as the kidnapper dropped his syringe to try and grab the nimble raccoon who was, quite literally, slipping through his fingers.

Gamora's voice shouting angry alien obscenities followed him as he ran on all fours, his step faltering slightly, prickles of pain announcing the flow of blood circulation returning to his limbs. He pushed the stings from dozens of mirror shard lacerations in his left arm to the back of his mind – he could deal with it later – as he disappeared into the traffic.

* * *

Groot set the large sack of marshmallows down on Rocket's empty hospital bed, a worried frown etched into his bark. His dark, gentle eyes watched his companions argue. He was not one to judge, but sometimes it seemed to him that the Guardians of the Galaxy's initial solution to every problem was to determine whose fault it was.

"I am Groot," he offered to take the blame. After all, he should have been here, at Rocket's side. True, he had been searching for something to lighten the little furball's troubled mood, but he could have waited for Quill and Gamora to return before setting out.

Of course, all three of them turned to him politely when he spoke, then dismissed what he had said in favour of bickering some more. They weren't being mean. They just couldn't understand his speech the way Rocket could.

The problem was, none of this was getting them any closer to rescuing Rocket. Besides, after receiving Rocket's message, he knew exactly where to go. He had never known the raccoon could communicate telepathically – perhaps it was a new talent his friend had developed – but the message itself was clear as sunlight kissing leaves.

The only problem was convincing them to stop fighting amongst themselves and follow. Just then, sudden inspiration struck and the answer came to him. With a jubilant "I am Groot!", he lifted Peter Quill off his feet, tucked the undignified half-terran under his arm and ran with footsteps like an earthquake in the direction his tiny friend's desperate call had come from. This way, the others had no choice but to follow.

* * *

Rocket was lost in a sea of voices babbling over one another.

The noise in this city was deafening. His bounty hunting days had taken him more places, metropolis and slum alike, than most people even knew existed, but this was like nothing the raccoon had ever heard. Covering his ears did not seem to help; nothing he tried would diminish the roaring chaos. Had it been this bad around the hospital? No, that was probably in a quiet neighbourhood. But why hadn't he noticed the noise before now? The van must have been sound-proofed.

Disoriented by the constant clamour, Rocket tried to navigate through the oncoming bustle of feet, shins, briefcases and handbags. The passers by did not seem to notice him as he stumbled along, no longer sure where he was going after he'd finally stopped running. That was to the good – he did not need any more attention. That he did not even think to swipe a purse or two while he was down here was testament to his bewildered state. He was so focused on keeping one foot in front of the other while avoiding being stepped on that he was unprepared for what happened next.

Something slammed into him and he was knocked down, winded. Rocket's eyes snapped open, frantically scanning the area for his pursuer, but all he saw was a beat up looking bicycle, one wheel still spinning, and a woman wearing a cycling helmet and knee pads, lying on the sidewalk.

"Oh my, I am so sorry! A-Are you..." the cyclist began before even looking up. As she raised her eyes and saw just what she had crashed into, words seemed to fail her. "...all... right?"

"'m fine," Rocket mumbled, then grimaced at the way the woman's eyes widened in shock at hearing him speak. _What's the matter? Ain't never seen a talking whatever-I-am before!?_ _You ain't the first either!_ he thought bitterly.

The dazed raccoon tried to lift himself off the pavement only to sink back down with a wince the minute he tried to bend his leg. Giving himself a quick once over, Rocket started at the sight of the blood all over his left arm. He then realized that the cuts from the mirror had merely reopened, probably from all that running. He was not seriously hurt as far as he could tell, but he must have twisted something in his leg.

"It can talk? What the hell is this thing!?"

Rocket's head jerked up at her tone, ready to bolt, his hurt leg be damned. He'd clearly heard her, but the cyclist was dusting herself off calmly, like she hadn't spoken at all.

"I'm so sorry I hit you with my bike," the woman continued, smiling apologetically. "Let me help you." _It's terribly skinny... Does it have some sort of disease? Maybe I shouldn't touch it..._

Rocket stared. With her lips, the woman was saying one thing, but at the same time, she was saying something else entirely without moving them... Her thoughts!? The stunned raccoon snapped his jaws shut with an audible click. How was it that he could hear what she was thinking? He swallowed thickly as he remembered that freaky nightmare where he was trapped in the honey with the voices talking to each other inside his head.

"I-I don't need any help," he assured her, forcing down the pain in his leg so he could stagger to his feet and back away.

"Come, come here, it's okay," she cooed sweetly, but in her mind she was torn between calling the pound and alerting the tabloids. He could hear her wishing that she'd bought that camera when she'd had the chance and he could hear her wondering whether he would bite if she tried to catch him.

Rocket edged away from her. He had never been a trusting person. He knew that people rarely ever meant what they said. Rarer still were the ones who bothered to keep their promises. So he was not sure why this woman's forced sympathy disturbed him so. Perhaps his time with the Guardians had dulled the edge of his mistrust slightly, for seeing the bald reality unfolding before his eyes shocked him more than he thought it could.

 _Why's the thing freaking out? I'm trying to be nice to it, dammit!_ The sound of these thoughts was accompanied by a beckoning hand and an encouraging smile. _If only I had a net or something..._

"No! L-Leave me alone!" Rocket cried.

He suddenly became aware of the growing crowd of onlookers and at once all of their thoughts flooded his senses. The torrent of noise threatened to sweep him away. It made such a cacophony that he could not make sense of more than snatches at a time.

 _It's even wearing clothes, but— ...crazy animal. Wait 'til I tell everyone— ...freak of nature! —some kind of prank? ...probably has rabies... —belongs in a zoo! I'm calling the... —would make a great pet for... It's so cute— ...such a filthy creature! ...can I keep him!? ...bet that's the thing that was at my trash the other night! —somebody shoot it!_

Struggling to keep his own thoughts together, Rocket made a break for it, darting, despite the gnawing ache he felt every time he put pressure on his left foot, to avoid the wall of legs surrounding him. He was heading for the nearest alley into which he could disappear when his spine protested in pain as he was tugged to an abrupt stop. A hand was harshly gripping his tail, holding him fast. He fought to ignore the agony flaring throughout his small body as he was lifted into the air and dangled upside down by his tail. The sudden rush of blood to his brain made him dizzy. Gamora's face, now wearing open rage and disgust, came into view. Rocket barely bit back a whimper at the jolt of raw pain that rippled up his spine as his captor shook him roughly.

"Thought you could get away, did you?" Gamora's voice hissed menacingly. "Not with that trail of blood you left behind!" Inside the kidnapper's head, the male voice was seething with rage. _Out of rope! Out of shots! I should have put the mangy thing in a cage is what I should have done!_

 _Please, not a cage!_ the tiny voice of Rocket's panic gibbered in fear. The little raccoon hardened his resolve. Never show weakness.

"Put me down," he snarled in his toughest voice, "ya filthy skin-stealer, or I'll chew yer face off!"

 _How can it see through my disguise?_ Not-Gamora's eyes widened with incredulity.

"Shut up, rat!" the impostor barked, making Gamora's voice sound shrill and piercing. It was a far cry from the deadly silk that usually laced her voice when she became angry. "The deal states you need only be alive and reasonably intact for me to get my money."

Rocket's eyes grew wide as he saw in his attacker's mind what he was going to do before he did it. The pain of his skull smashing into the brick wall of the alley somehow still managed to take him by surprise.

 _A concussed prize is better than no prize at all!_ The amused thoughts of his captor was the last thing he heard before blacking out.

* * *

When Groot finally put him down, Peter and the rest of the Guardians of the Galaxy found themselves in a park near a clogged highway. Traffic personnel were just clearing away a great big green truck that seemed to have jack-knifed across all of the road. Their friendly tree giant was gesticulating animatedly towards a single black van that stood abandoned amidst the slowly resuming flow of traffic, its side-door wide open. How could Groot have known? Well, however he'd done it, Peter was willing to let it remain a mystery forever as long as they got Rocket back.

What he saw next gave him the willies. From the other side of the road, the spitting image of Gamora was stalking towards the van, a sack slung over her shoulder. No wonder Drax had accused their own green assassin of drugging him! The woman could have sauntered up to Peter with a mug of drugged coffee and he would have believed it was Gamora herself, too. The real Gamora loosed a low, unsettling growl in her throat.

"We need to be smart about this," Peter instructed quietly, "she hasn't seen us yet, so let's follow her to make sure— Really!?"

Before he could finish explaining his plan, Gamora was off like a hot hyperdrive. Peter expected this kind of loose-cannon behaviour from Drax the Destroyer, or maybe Rocket, or, basically from any of the other Guardians (they were all terrible at following orders, actually), but not from _her_. Gamora was normally the cool, calculating one who stayed calm, come hell or high water. Then again, Peter would probably have been more than a little upset too if someone wearing _his_ face went and drugged Drax and kidnapped Rocket.

Speaking of water, the cauldron of black clouds up in the sky chose that moment to unleash their downpour. Rain literally came down in sheets. Peter decided that he did not like the weather on this planet at all.

"Dammit!" he cursed as he, Groot and Drax were forced to follow Gamora or be left behind.

The fake Gamora, nearly halfway to the black van by now, spotted her fast-approaching twin and dropped the sack in the middle of the road. Peter winced as it hit the wet asphalt. If Rocket was inside it, he was incapacitated somehow, for the sack remained limp and unmoving.

Fake Gamora pulled out a small, black cylinder, about a hand long, that quickly extended to become a rather vicious-looking electrical lance. The real Gamora wasted no time in drawing her own weapon. Sword met lance, again and again, clashing like thunder amidst the heavy rain. The two women moved too fast for Peter's eyes to follow. Gamora took a hit. The other woman nearly got impaled for it. Gamora nearly got her head taken off. And then there was another great clash as sword and lance locked together. One of the Gamoras twisted and the other kicked, and both weapons flew aside. Suddenly the women were unarmed, but that made them no less dangerous.

If Peter thought they moved fast before, now they were a blur of green fists, feet and elbows. He had his blasters out, but by now, they had become so turned about that he was no longer sure which one was _their_ Gamora. One of them fought with her back to the discarded sack, but it was impossible to tell whether she was the impostor, trying to keep Gamora from getting to Rocket, or the real Gamora, trying to protect Rocket from the impostor.

"Quill," Drax spoke up next to him, "you create a distraction and I shall assist our assassin." And he was off.

Peter turned to Groot beside him, whose great wooden mouth was hanging open. _Create a distraction?_ Sure, that was his specialty, but somehow Peter thought challenging the Gamora twins to a dance off wasn't going to cut it this time. Frustrated, he tugged at a wet lock that had found its way to his forehead as his eyes scoured the scene for anything he could use _. C'mon, c'mon, a distraction...!_ Something _big_ , something _loud_. And then his eyes lit on the abandoned van. _Perfect!_

Luckily, the fight in the middle of the road had completely cleared out the traffic, so there was no chance of collateral damage. Having seen the commotion, motorists from the oncoming lanes had wisely stopped a safe distance away.

Peter switched his blasters to the new incendiary setting Rocket had installed for him and aimed them at the black van's fuel tank.

"You wanted a distraction, Drax, baby," he muttered, wishing he could have crossed his fingers, "you're getting it – the mother of all distractions!"

"I am Groot!" came the concerned voice of his big, wooden friend behind him.

He squeezed both triggers simultaneously.

The resulting explosion knocked him off his feet. Blinking, he tried to get his bearings. When Rocket created weapons of mass destruction, he did so thoroughly. Never let it be said that an explosion was small if anything Rocket Raccoon had built was involved. Peter's eyes located the Gamoras. They'd been far enough away from the van that the blast hadn't knocked them down, but Peter could tell their ears were ringing, because they'd stopped fighting for a second.

And into that small window of opportunity leapt Drax the Destroyer, bringing down one of those vicious knives he was always fondling and thrusting it deep into Gamora. Peter's heart stopped as one of the green women stared in shock at the knife protruding from her chest. She toppled over before Peter could reach them.

Mouth working soundlessly, Peter looked from the dead Gamora to the live one, who was still massaging her eardrums. Slowly, the dead woman in his arms melted away before his eyes and was replaced by a hideous alien with scaly, dark grey-green skin and a square chin covered in vertical folds. It had pointed ears and its red eyes stared up at the cascading heavens, now and forever unaware of the raindrops pelting its pupils.

"A Skrull," Drax stated simply, toeing the dead alien, "Shapeshifters. The only way to get them to show their true form is to kill them."

"B-But...!" Peter spluttered, consternation at this strange alien before him warring with his anger at Drax for not telling him what he was planning. "But if killing them is the only way to see which one is the... Skrull... H-How did you know you... got the right one!?"

He felt sick. Just thinking that there had been a fifty-fifty chance that Drax could have been wrong, that the body at his feet could just as easily have been the real Gamora, was too much for Peter. He drew himself up and glared at Drax.

"How _could_ you?" Peter seethed. "There was no way to know which one was the Skrull! _How_ could you gamble with your team mate, no, your _friend's_ life like that!?" He realized by the end that he was shouting.

Drax seemed unimpressed by his tirade, a solid rock ignoring the battering waves of the ocean.

"I have sparred with this woman in hand-to-hand combat many times," he pointed out calmly, "and I know her technique well. The other one's punches were clumsy, the kicks executed poorly. The difference was clear."

Gamora smiled and placed a hand on Drax's broad shoulder, nodding her thanks. At seeing that she wasn't upset, not even a little bit, Peter finally deflated.

"I am Groot," their big tree said, nodding eagerly.

"Don't tell me _you_ saw the difference just as quickly, big guy!" Peter sighed, scrubbing a hand through his wet hair. "Sorry, Drax. I don't know what came over me..."

Just then, the bag behind Gamora stirred, and a small groan emitted from it. They watched as the bedraggled form of their furry weapons expert hauled itself from the bag, blinking uncertainly. The little raccoon rubbed the side of his head, then looked up at his companions, his eyes going bigger and rounder by the second.

* * *

Rocket looked up at his friends in horror.

What were they thinking as they stared back at him? Did he really want to know the things they never said, the things they hid behind their beckoning hands and encouraging smiles? It sounded silly even as he thought it, but he'd only just gotten used to the idea of having a family that accepted him, at least on the surface. It would crush him if he had to lose them by learning what they really thought of him. He was fine with pretending that they accepted him. He was fine with living a lie and make-believe that life could ever be anything that resembled 'normal' for him.

For once in his life, Rocket Raccoon wasn't interested in reality. He didn't want to know. He was _afraid_ to know. He squeezed his eyes shut and covered his ears, knowing full well that doing so would do nothing to block out the thoughts of those around him.

Rodent.

Lab experiment, born in a d'ast test tube.

A freak.

A monster.

If he had to hear these things from his own family, he just wouldn't be able to stand it. So, ignoring his injuries and the startled cries of his team mates, he turned and fled.


	5. Precious Discovery

**Author's Note:** **Let's all cuddle Rocket!**

* * *

The smooth floor tiles, slippery with the injured creature's blood, caused its little paws to skid as it turned a sharp corner to avoid its hunters. Its newly improved heart battered violently against its artificially reinforced ribcage as it pressed itself up against the cool, tiled wall, trying to make itself as small as possible. The big, heavy footsteps coming inexorably closer rang too loudly in its keen ears. Its sensitive eyes were blinded by the flashing search lights.

Running hurt. But if it was caught, it would hurt more. Spurred by the promise of pain, it ran on.

 _"Rocket, wait! Come back!"_ a distorted voice called from somewhere beyond the too dark, too bright world of black shadows and white tiles and the wounded animal hesitated.

 _I know that voice..._

For a moment, the smooth, blood-smeared floor was replaced with rough, wet asphalt and the search lights became glaring headlights. The creature was still hurt and scared, but instead of trying to get away from grabbing hands, it was now dodging roaring machines with screeching tyres in the driving rain.

This lasted no longer than a heartbeat, and then the hands were back, trying to catch and hold and lock away and hurt. The creature's breath whistled from its open mouth as it sped down white tiled halls on all fours, trying hard not to look at the cages, some empty, some not, that lined the walls on either side. It ran on.

 _I'm panicking_ , it thought, trying for a precious few sane moments to control its breathing. _This is all wrong, this isn't where I'm supposed to be!_ But it could not remember where it really was and what it was really running from, just that it was hurt and scared and it had to get away.

So it ran on.

* * *

Peter Quill, also known as the legendary outlaw-turned-hero, Star-Lord, was scared. In fact, that was an understatement – he was outright horrified. Watching his small friend rush headlong onto a busy street to get away from them, that felt like something coming to life out of a nightmare. Peter's gut clenched violently every time the little raccoon swerved out of the path of an oncoming vehicle just in time.

Rocket was too far away for Peter to make out his face, but he was certain that the normally intelligent brown eyes were black now, unseeing and clouded with terror. His friend was trapped inside a panic attack, blindly running from something that wasn't there.

It had only ever been this bad once before, but that had happened within the confines of their ship, not out in the middle of a bustling highway! Peter remembered how Gamora had held the wildly writhing creature to her chest, not even flinching as his claws tore at the bare flesh of her upper arms, her neck, her face – wherever the desperate little hands could find purchase. The green assassin had been the only one fast enough to catch the raccoon before he could disappear into the ship's wiring. He'd fought her, fought her until his strength failed. But she'd just held on to him, talking to him in a low, soothing voice until, finally, exhaustion claimed him.

The important thing right now was to get Rocket out of harm's way so they could take him somewhere quiet, where he could have some space to find himself again. Catching up to him, _that_ was the rub. No one had expected the fluffy blur to take off out of the sack so suddenly and by the time they'd realized what was going on, the distressed raccoon was dashing up the street, straight into the hectic maze of traffic ahead.

"Split up!" Peter barked, not caring if he sounded harsh. Hopefully the team would follow his orders this time. "Groot, you get up ahead and try to stall any vehicles coming this way! Gamora, Drax, I'm gonna try and head him off. I'll herd Rocket your way, so you catch him as soon as he runs from me, OK?" He eyed each Guardian in turn until they nodded. "This is one game of Frogger we cannot afford to lose!"

Ignoring the group's lack of reaction – they rarely grasped his Earth references, anyway – Peter wiped rainwater from his eyes and ignited his boot jets. He sped to the other side of the road to cut off the frenzied raccoon's escape.

"Rocket, wait!" he shouted over the sound of drumming rain and blaring horns as he passed overhead. "Come back!"

For a moment, the raccoon slowed and blinked, confused. Peter allowed himself a small thrill of triumph, seeing Rocket react to his voice. But then the raccoon's fear came back and the panic took over again. Peter gasped when he saw Rocket change direction frantically, straight into the path of a big old cement truck. The driver must have slammed on the brakes much too quickly, for the tyres squealed and the heavy vehicle slid on the wet road, but did not stop.

 _It's not going to stop in time!_ he realized with a stab of dread.

Rocket was going to be run over.

Peter Quill then made a split-second decision that he knew Gamora would scold him for. He also knew that, were she in his place, she would have done the exact same thing. He kicked his legs out, adjusting his boosters as he did so, turned about and made an almost vertical dive for the road.

 _Hang in there, Rocket!_ He was feeling quite heroic as he descended at breakneck speed and swiped his friend out from under the wheel of the fast approaching truck in the nick of time. He felt less heroic a few moments later, skidding painfully along on his back to keep the squirming raccoon clear of the rough asphalt. Peter had about a fraction of a second to regret not activating his helmet before his head impacted with the lip of the sidewalk, Rocket slipped from his grip and everything went black.

* * *

It was caught! The wounded creature struggled as the hands closed around its middle and swung it roughly through the air at dizzying speed. The hands didn't care how much it screamed with its new-found voice. The hands didn't care that the weak little thing was bleeding all over the slippery tile floor.

The hands were taking it back, back to the cage, the cage in the world of hurt. There, the wounded creature would be repaired, repaired only to be broken once more.

There was a jolt as they hit the sidewalk.

And suddenly it was _Rocket_ again. His sense of self restored, Rocket was aware just long enough to realize that he should have grasped the ledge as he slid past before he was plunged into an icy abyss and the treacherous stream of rainwater pulled him under.

* * *

He became aware of the odd sensation of fingers tangling in his wet locks. Someone was stroking his hair. _This is nice..._ he thought groggily. Peter leaned into the touch slightly, then grimaced when the fingers probed an especially tender spot at the back of his head.

"Owww," he moaned, his eyes popping open. He was treated to the sight of a gorgeous, yet very concerned frown as Gamora inspected him up close. "Hey, beautiful- ahh, watch it...!"

"Oh, Peter, you sweet, sweet moron!" she gasped, taking her hands from his head in favour of cupping his cheeks. She had her forehead pressed against his and he realized with a start that she was trembling slightly. "You could have been killed! What were you _thinking_?"

"I... was kinda thinkin' I didn't want my little best friend to become road kill," he grunted. "Wuh... What happened? Where's Rocket?"

Gamora's expression clouded over almost instantly.

"Drax and Groot are searching for him right now," she replied, looking away.

Peter followed her stare. For the first time, he noticed the huge crater in the pavement next to him and the sound of rushing water emanating from it. That certainly hadn't been there before.

"Well, where did he go?" he pressed, gently guiding her gaze back to his with a thumb under her chin. "Gamora?"

"Peter, he fell down the storm drain..." she said at last, indicating the great crack in the sidewalk. Staring down at all that water, Peter's stomach did a nasty somersault. "Groot ripped off the grating and they went in after him." When he finally managed to tear his eyes away and look back at Gamora, her eyes were glistening. "Peter, would he be able to swim in that state?"

Unable to bear seeing their tough-as-nails assassin this rattled any longer, Peter tottered to his feet.

"C'mon, we're wasting time here," he announced and barely suppressed a wince when she looked up at him with renewed hope. It was just another of those nasty responsibility-things that made being the leader such a pain in the ass, he supposed, giving others hope even when he really felt like tearing out his hair. He set his jaw and offered Gamora his hand. "Let's go find Rocket."

* * *

This time of year was always wet, old Douglas thought as he rolled up the stubborn pant leg before it could slip all the way down into the water again. Darn good for fishing, though, and while old Douglas had never caught a fish in his life, enough leftovers from the good people on the street level washed down here during the rainy season that he could at least pretend. After an especially violent storm, the occasional dead rat would come floating down the canal too, a meaty little blessing for poor old Douglas' shrunken old stomach. Life down here in the waterways was rough, to be sure, but for an outcast like old Douglas, it was just his way of life.

He certainly was taken aback when something much bigger than a rat came drifting downstream; an odd sort of creature with dark patches around the eyes, clinging to a piece of rotting wood with oddly human-like little hands.

"Well, well, well," the old man chuckled, as he fished the sodden creature out of the drink, "you don't got much meat on ye. Better 'n rat, o' course, I meant no insult... But I bet ye'll at least make a nice hat for Dougie's bald ole 'ead, won't ye?"

Abandoning his scavenging for the day, old Douglas carried the limp little thing off to his campsite, where he'd managed to start a fire in the one spot he'd found to be mostly dry throughout the day. The creature's piece of driftwood went onto the firewood pile for later. He lay the animal down next to the campfire, frowning for a moment over the cute little orange suit it was wearing. He sure hoped it wasn't some poor kid's pet that got sucked down the storm drain and went and got itself all drowned. Old Douglas had a soft spot for kids. What old Douglas wouldn't give to be a kid again...

He was startled from his reverie by a weak cough.

* * *

Rocket's head was pounding. All the rest of him was numb with the cold, but the pressure building behind his eyes threatened to bust his head open. If he could feel to move his hands, he thought he might even have tried clawing his eyes out to relieve some of the pressure.

Coughing seemed to upset his headache, but his lungs were adamant that the water he'd swallowed be expelled immediately.

 _Where the hell am I?_

Hell, even thinking hurt.

"Oy, so ye aren't a dead'un after all!" a rough voice exclaimed in such a slurred accent that the half-conscious raccoon barely understood.

Well, there wasn't much he could really say to that, was there? He was pretty surprised to be alive himself.

The throbbing headache warned him to take it slow, so he lifted his eyelids just a crack. Peering at the world around him through slits, Rocket could make out that he was inside some sort of dim tunnel system, illuminated by the sparse, orange glow of a fire. Something was boiling over the flames. Mud stew, if the smell was any indication. If there was a hint of meat in there somewhere, Rocket was sure he'd rather not know where it came from. His other senses were telling him nothing he didn't already know – it was damp down here and everything was wet and flarking _cold_.

Sitting next to the crackling fire was a bag-of-bones humie, dressed in patchwork clothes that might have once been any number of colours, all faded to shades of greyish brown now. The old man's scent was like that of most bald-bodies, only more rancid and stronger. Somewhere, an old radio was playing a song that reminded Rocket of Quill.

"Here, this'll warm ye up right enough," the stranger rasped in a voice like sandpaper.

A gnarled hand came into view proffering a chipped mug. Rocket's nose warned him that the clay mug's steaming contents was a match to the muddy water boiling on the fire. He made a face, but before he had the chance to resist, the man's other hand tipped his head back and the bland slop was sliding down his throat. It was as unappetizing as it smelled, but it was warm. Almost immediately, his headache eased and feeling began to return to his limbs. Rocket shivered, realizing just how cold he really was.

"Good, idn'it?" the old man chuckled, promptly draping a moth-eaten blanket over the raccoon's quivering form.

The stranger prattled on, but the sleepy raccoon was no longer listening to the words. The music was still playing somewhere in the tunnel. The unfamiliar melody had a haunting, almost-sad sort of lilt to it. Rocket didn't know the song, but he would have bet money that Quill would like it. It couldn't be from Terra, though, not out here, on the other side of the universe.

"Hey, what's that music?" he asked when he could no longer contain his curiosity.

The old man stopped mid-sentence, his mouth dropping open almost comically as he stared at Rocket like he was a talking animal. The raccoon held back a miserable sigh. _Go figure..._

* * *

Old Douglas wasn't really surprised that the half-dead critter he'd rescued from the waterway could talk. After all, if it could wear clothes, why in the world wouldn't it be able to talk, too? By now, he was convinced that the puny creature was an alien and not at all some child's lost pet.

What shocked old Douglas to his marrow was the fact that his furry little visitor asked after the song. A tear came to the old man's eye. All these years, he'd been convinced that he was crazy, because no one else could hear the song that followed old Douglas wherever he went. He'd been so sure the music was just in his head that he'd gone to live in seclusion for fear of spreading the madness to his grandchildren. But if this little creature could hear it, too, he must be sane after all!

"Wait, _that's_ where it's comin' from?" the fluffy alien asked incredulously, ears twitching fitfully as it propped itself up on its elbows to look old Douglas square in the eye. It opened its mouth to say more, then seemed to think the better of it and shrugged. "Anyway, I know someone who'd probably love it..."

Was it the old man's imagination, or did the little critter suddenly look lost. Its ears drooped and its eyes began wandering aimlessly until they found the campfire, then locked on to the flames and stared, blinking harshly.

Old Douglas had so many things he wanted to ask the exceptional creature, but that was when the strangers arrived.

* * *

Peter was relieved, to say the least, when he and Gamora came upon the crazy old hermit's dingy campsite hidden in the maze of waterways crisscrossing the city. Rocket, though wet and bedraggled and clutching a tatty old blanket to his chest, was whole and safe. If it wasn't such a sensitive subject, Peter would have teased that the raccoon must be at least part cat for all the extra lives he'd already used up by now. Anyhow, he was just glad his friend was all right.

He let Gamora do the honours of contacting Drax and Groot with the good news while he negotiated with the bald old man. The old geezer didn't seem to want anything in return for saving Rocket's life, but Peter rewarded him regardless. He expected Rocket to make some comment about how many units he was worth or at least jokingly demand a share for himself, but his small friend just sat there studying him wordlessly – not one quip!

After several valiant attempts at standing by himself, Rocket finally admitted defeat. Peter cringed at the sight of the raccoon's swollen ankle – running through that traffic nightmare after twisting his foot that badly must have been agony. Peter knelt in front of Rocket and for the longest moment, all the half-frozen raccoon did was stare at him in apprehension, unfocused eyes wavering slightly. Peter became aware of Gamora's presence next to him.

* * *

Rocket closed his eyes against the thoughts of the two people in front of him as much as against the wave of dizziness that suddenly hit him. Some part of him wanted this over with. _Let the truth come out and get on with your miserable life!_ But another part of himself stubbornly, childishly, wanted to cling to even the barest illusion of acceptance. _But... they're all the family I ever had..._

"Let me take him," came Gamora's voice.

"Uh... You sure that's a good idea?" Quill's answer was extremely hesitant. Strong thoughts of caution and danger wafted from their self-appointed leader no matter how Rocket tried to block them out.

"Let me take him, Peter," Gamora repeated softly, "please..." and even through her pleading tone, Rocket could feel anger coming off her in waves. _I have to make things right..._ came her determined thought and it seemed lined with unquenchable wrath.

Rocket felt her put her arms around him and squirmed, but there was no strength left in his exhausted little body to put up much of a fight. He forced himself to open his eyes and found himself staring straight into hers. She was a bit blurry, but he thought she looked sad. Already her thoughts seemed at odds with her face. Rocket flinched away from her, eyes squeezed shut, and the intensity of her rage doubled. He wanted with his whole being to shut it out, but he couldn't. _Here comes the ugly truth..._

"I don't blame you for running..." she breathed close to his ear. A little shiver ran through Rocket as Gamora's anger crested.

 _Liar..._ he thought, refusing to look at her. _If you're mad at me, spit it out already!_

"Rocket, don't be afraid," she whispered and she sounded on the verge of tears, but her rage still seemed stronger than her sorrow. "Rocket, _please_..."

And that was when he became aware of the litany that was repeating itself over and over in the back of her mind. _That bitch that bitch that bitch that bitch!_ And he realized, then, that the anger was not directed at him, but someone else. Too surprised to stop himself, Rocket's eyes shot open and he stared at Gamora in disbelief. Thoughts of murder and revenge were rolling over one another in her head even as the green-skinned woman's eyes softened for him.

"You have to believe me," she managed to choke out when their eyes met, her voice catching slightly, "it wasn't me, Rocket! She was a Skrull, wearing my face—" _Please don't hate me!_ He heard her desperate thoughts and he was shocked to find that the pain they carried seemed to echo the very fears and insecurities that had sent him running in the first place. _Even if you never trust me again, Rocket, please don't hate me...!_

"I know, G'mora," he exhaled hoarsely. He had to blink a couple of times before he could bring himself to continue, but he pressed on. "And I don't hate ya..."

"Oh, Rocket!" she sobbed in relief, burying her face in his damp fur and hugging him tightly. His first instinct was to stiffen at the unexpectedly open affection, but he suppressed it.

She had no idea how much her relief mirrored his own. Even if he knew where to begin, he was too overwhelmed to explain. Looking at his team gathering round, Groot and Drax, too, joining them in the muted firelight, Rocket realized that his fears had been unfounded. Where he had expected thoughts of disgust or perhaps pity, the stunned raccoon was confronted with a thing that was quite alien to him as his mind took in the mismatched group of people he called family. He had no name for it. He refused to call it 'love' – that was far too sappy. It was more like a sense of... _togetherness_... of belonging.

It was sort of like a never ending sunset shared among them and only them. Rocket found himself transfixed by it. It was beautiful and he liked it. Closing his eyes, he basked in this precious feeling until sleep took him.

* * *

Myra wasn't really in the mood for surprises. Daddy had already explained that catching her little raccoon was going to take longer than they first anticipated. And if the surprise wasn't her cute little raccoon, then she didn't want it. But Daddy loved her, so she played along.

"All right, you can look now, cupcake!" Daddy cooed excitedly.

Upon opening her eyes, the girl felt an involuntary thrill of delight. The gilded framework of an elaborate cage glinted as it caught the light where it hung suspended from a chain in the ceiling. It had an eye-pleasing bell shape that reminded her of an old-fashioned bird cage. Right next to her bed, it would be the last thing she saw before falling asleep and the first thing to greet her when she woke up in the morning.

Of course, it was still empty.

But that would change soon enough...


	6. Friends Like These

**Author's Note:** **This chapter took a lot longer than it should have, but at least it's a long one!**

* * *

"Remind me again why the flark I don't I have more clothes!" Rocket Raccoon complained loudly as he limped out into the ship's living area, bristling. "It certainly ain't coz I enjoy wearin' _your_ stuff, Star-Nerd!"

Gamora fought to suppress a smile. The disgruntled little raccoon looked ridiculously cute in a Star-Lord-sized yellow t-shirt that proclaimed _'So Many Girls, So Little Time'_ across the chest in bold letters. His trademark "laugh and I flarkin' kill ya" scowl was already in place as he stalked across the room, struggling to remain dignified and not trip over the hem of the shirt at the same time. Rocket hadn't had much choice in the matter - it was either catch a cold or borrow one of Peter's shirts until his jumpsuit finished drying (because, you know, going naked was absolutely _not_ an option).

"Well, Rocket, if you're not happy with it, there's always the pink blouse that says _'Dude Magnet'_ that's a couple sizes smaller," Peter shot back as he followed the miffed raccoon from the hallway, "and you could use the two extra sleeves for-" Turning around and spotting Gamora, he had the nerve to look abashed as he scratched the back of his head. "Anyway, I'm... still not sure who that belonged to..." he finished with a weak laugh.

"You do not have more clothes, little one, because you actively dislike any kind of shopping that does not involve weapons," Drax reminded helpfully. "Those uniforms we received from the Ravagers sustained irreparable damage during our battle with Ronan the Accuser... and you still refuse to tell us what happened to the blue suit the Nova Corps bestowed on you. It was that day of the great explosion down in the—"

"Arright, arright! Yeesh!" Rocket interrupted, waving his paws around in agitation. "I get it... It's _literally_ my own fault..." he grumbled under his breath.

The little raccoon looked so miserable that Gamora resolved to make sure they got him some more outfits to choose from as soon as the opportunity presented itself. For a moment, her eyes found Rocket's and an expression she couldn't quite read crossed his furry features. She had the oddest feeling that he knew what she was thinking.

"It's coz shopping for disappointment is frickin' annoying," Rocket muttered finally, kicking at nothing with his bandage-wrapped foot. The twisted ankle was, thankfully, not too serious. Suddenly, the raccoon's head shot up and he frowned in Groot's direction with flattened ears. "What're _you_ smilin' about, ya big sap?" he snapped.

"I am Groot," the tall wooden man replied passively.

"Whatever," Rocket retorted. He turned to Gamora and pinned her with a serious stare. He took a deep breath and tugged at one of his fluffy ears the way he did when he was feeling awkward, but his eyes were intense. "Look, uh... Green, I need to talk to ya."

"Certainly," she replied, turning and reaching for the ladder leading up to the cockpit, their usual meeting place.

She was surprised when tiny fingers gripped the fabric of her pant leg.

"N-Not up there," he said quietly, "over here..."

He began reaching up as if he meant to take her hand, then pulled back abruptly as if burned. He tucked his hands behind his back instead. The wideness of his eyes worried Gamora, but she followed him with a wordless nod.

* * *

Rocket's room aboard the Milano was more of a large broom closet than a small room. This didn't seem to bother him, since he never made much use of it anyway. He liked sleeping curled up in the hollow formed by the branches that made up Groot's clavicle, or passed out at his workbench over one of his inventions, so the fold-down bunk attached to the wall was rarely slept in.

Even so, Gamora couldn't help but feel a little uncomfortable, sitting there on Rocket's bed. Folded out, it seemed to take up all the space. The raccoon in question sat next to her, picking at the seams of his pillow and avoiding her eyes. Gamora decided that she would give Rocket time to gather his thoughts. After so many sleepless nights spent in the cockpit, they were both accustomed to the sound of one another's silence. He would get around to what he wanted to say when he was ready.

In the meantime, she eyed Rocket's collection of mementos decorating the shelves and walls; here an oddly shaped screw, there a rare-looking bottle cap, some spent casings, no doubt from a glorious heist long past, a pair of wanted posters he seemed to take pride in, blueprints hastily scribbled on scrap paper, even a containment orb like the one they'd used to retake the infinity stone... and a pile of scorched sticks that she was more than twelve percent certain came from the crash site of the Dark Aster.

In short, this little corner of the ship was personal to Rocket, so, even though he'd invited her, she felt like she was imposing.

With nothing to talk about, however, she continued to let her gaze roam until her eyes settled on a data chip that bore innumerable scuff marks, like it had been hurled at the wall repeatedly. She found the spot easily; a dent in the smooth metal plate that made up the far wall marked the target of the memory chip. The small object's label was faded to the point that she could only make out the first few letters, " _HALFW_ —" and fragments of a string of code Gamora knew made up what used to be Rocket's name.

He saw her looking at it.

"It's blank, y'know..." Rocket spoke up, reaching for the data chip and running his sensitive fingertips over its worn surface. "Used to think I'd understand all of it... all of _me_... if I looked at it. At first I didn't wanna know. Guess I was... scared of what I'd find, y'know?" He gave a self-deprecating snort. "Finally made up my mind an' all I found was a big, fat nothin'. Dunno if it was wiped or jus' too damaged... Anyway, it's useless now, right?"

"Still, you kept it," she pointed out. "Why?"

Without warning, Rocket pitched the data chip in his hand at the dented spot on the wall so hard it bounced back. He snatched it out of the air in a practiced motion.

"To remind me," he said with a grim smile, replacing the mistreated piece of hardware on the shelf opposite his bed.

He didn't say of what.

Gamora decided not to press the issue. Besides, she didn't think he'd asked her here to talk about his past, mainly because he never talked about his past.

"Well, yer half right," Rocket muttered. "It ain't what I wanted to talk to ya about."

She turned to stare at him. Instantly, he dropped his gaze to the pillow he was hugging tightly to his chest like it had suddenly become the most interesting object in the room. His ears fell back, but not at the angle they usually lay when he was aggressive or frustrated. Uncharacteristically, his expression reminded her of a lost puppy.

The tip of his tail twitched ever so slightly.

"M'sorry..." the flustered raccoon grunted, "I er... dunno how to explain. Groot's figured it out already, but I guess it ain't fair to just— I mean, I can't pretend I don't-"

Then, ever so carefully, Gamora made a gamble.

"Rocket, are you trying to say what I think you're trying to say...?" she asked with a well-timed frown.

"D'ast it! _No_!" Rocket practically yelped, staring at her with eyes like saucers. His ears stood up comically and his tail puffed out to almost twice its usual size. "Why do you hairless fleshbodies always have to go _there_!? I-I can hear yer flarkin' thoughts, _that's_ what I'm tryin' to say! _Sheesh_!"

Gamora had to smile at his reaction.

"But only surface thoughts," she observed.

"Feelin's, too, like anger 'n stuff, sometimes..." Rocket admitted slowly. "Dunno why, or how to control it—Wait, that's _not_ what ya were really thinkin'!?"

"I've dealt with telepaths before," she said simply. Rocket gave her a look. "Hiding your real intentions behind something you know will distract or embarrass - it's a trick that has proven essential in my... previous line of work. Granted, it doesn't always work with powerful or experienced telepaths. You seem to be neither."

"Well, way to give a guy a heart attack, G'mora," he grunted with a shrug, "So, how'd ya know?"

"I didn't, but..."

Thinking back on the vision that had filled her eyes that morning at the hospital, Gamora didn't quite succeed at suppressing a shudder.

 _One moment, she was bent over Peter, trying to keep him still so she could spread the ointment on his inflamed chest wound, the next she inexplicably found herself standing in a dark shed, watching a copy of herself hogtie Rocket. Her small friend was trying to fight the woman off, but he was weak as a kitten in the arms of his assailant. Fine lengths of rope were wound much too tightly around the little raccoon's arms, legs, elbows, ankles. Upon stepping forward to try and intervene, an invisible wall blocked Gamora's path. Any efforts to break through proved futile._

 _Rocket was pleading in a scared little voice as the other her attempted to slip a muzzle over his snout, and Gamora couldn't reach him._

 _He was right there, and she could not reach him._

 _She pounded on the barrier until her fists should have been bloody. She pounded until her finger bones should have cracked. The frantic grunts of protest coming from the struggling raccoon as the leather trap was strapped securely into place were still ringing in her ears when Peter's hand suddenly reached out for her and the familiar setting of the nurse's office reappeared._

"...I suspected," she finished quietly.

Rocket blinked, then tore his gaze away. A pensive frown crossed his face as he stared straight ahead of him silently, still blinking profusely. She heard a low sound emitting from his throat, a sound that was more whine than growl, but it was quickly masked as a long sigh and he set to rubbing his eyes surreptitiously.

"Are you all right?" Gamora asked, knowing full well that he was going to deflect the question.

"Headache," he muttered through clenched jaws. "Otherwise," he added with a smirk, "far as yer gonna get me to admit? Just peachy."

Speechless, Gamora stared at the raccoon sitting next to her. Somehow, Rocket managed to imitate Peter's insolent grin perfectly despite their vastly different facial structures and she had to resist the urge to roll her eyes at him. She could not decide whether Star-Lord's example was a bad influence on the little guy in this particular case or not...

Rocket's expression turned serious.

"Hey, Green... C-Could I, um...?" he floundered for the words, then looked up at her helplessly.

"Unlike you, Rocket, I have no way of telling what it is you're thinking," she pressed gently. "What is it?"

"I-I dunno, it feels like I'm s'posed to ask permission for stuff like this..." he continued, his ears twitching rapidly in self-consciousness. He studied his paws for a long while, then finally seemed to make up his mind. "When... When you guys found me, back there in the tunnel, I felt a... whaddayacallit... connection... feeling-thingy and... well, I-I can't find it anymore and... I just... ahhh, d'ast it!"

Growling fiercely, he started pulling at his ears in frustration.

"You want to make sure it's still there," Gamora supplied.

A pair of big, round, raccoon eyes regarded her with astonishment.

 _It would seem we're more alike than we first imagined, you and I_ , she thought at him, and smiled when he shook his head ruefully.

"S'long as ya don't start finishin' my—"

"—sentences?" Gamora teased playfully.

"—frickin' sentences! Now that creeps me the flark out," Rocket remarked, folding his ears back with a grimace. After a long look, he added: "Thinkin' the same thing, though - it'd be real useful in a fight..."

He turned away from her then, to stare at the dented mark on the wall, tail swishing with indecision.

"Come," she offered as she tucked her legs under her on the mattress and turned to face him, "let us see if you can find it again..."

Rocket gave a start when she spoke. He hesitated before turning back to her, apprehension shining in his eyes. Then, slowly, gingerly, he reached his tiny hands up to grasp either side of her face. Just for a moment, her resolve wavered. Gamora was not one to bare her soul to anyone lightly.

Then again, neither was Rocket.

She inclined her head a fraction and, standing on tiptoe, Rocket touched foreheads with her. Somehow, the gesture seemed more intimate than any kiss and yet far too innocent, child-like even, to be an act of romance. Gamora closed her eyes and placed her mind in an open, meditative state. She took herself back to that moment down in the waterways, back to that bittersweet feeling when she'd held her scared little crewmate in her arms, back to the realization that they'd found him after believing that, this time, they'd lost him forever.

She felt more than heard her small friend gasp in wonder.

* * *

Alone in his cabin, Rocket was still reeling from touching minds with Gamora. He sat on his rarely used bed, clutching his pillow and staring at nothing, finding himself silently in awe of what had just occurred. A genuine smile was growing on his lips despite the monster of a migraine he felt coming on.

Not only was he astounded by the respect with which Gamora regarded him; she had been uncomfortable ever since setting foot inside his small bedroom - not because he disgusted her or because she was wary of setting off his legendary temper, but because she saw it as his _personal_ _space_... She thought of him as an actual person, deserving of privacy. Not only that, but he felt a little ashamed at ever doubting her as a friend.

Not some partner with mutual business interests. A _real_ friend.

"You'll tell 'em about this for me, won'cha?" he'd asked uncertainly, but Gamora had only nodded like he was asking about something as trivial as trading shifts.

He tried not to listen in as Gamora updated the rest of the team on Rocket's strange new ability, but he was so nervous about how they would take the news that he just couldn't help himself. As a result, he only heard snatches. Heart pounding, he sat there imagining their expressions. Of course, Quill was the first to burst in on Rocket's anxious waiting with an eager smile on his face and some grand scheme about playing high stakes poker that the relieved raccoon simply had to grin over. Drax's reaction was much more reserved, but no one seemed overly freaked out at the idea of a genetically and cybernetically enhanced fur-based experiment who could talk and now also hear your thoughts.

Massaging his throbbing temples, Rocket went to bed with a lighter heart than he thought possible. He even managed to forget that he was still wearing Quill's stupid, dorky t-shirt. Now, if only his migraine would go away...

* * *

Peter Jason Quill, also known as Star-Lord, was a sound sleeper. Not one to be troubled by night terrors, Peter found that it was his thoughts, the regrets and the worries of real life that kept him up most nights. Once sleep found him, however, he was at peace with the world and it with him.

Which was why he was almost as freaked out by the fact that he had screamed himself awake in a tangled nest of blankets, clammy with his own sweat, as he was by the alien contents of his nightmare. Breathing in huge gulps of the Milano's carefully conditioned air, he blinked the perspiration from his eyes and dropped his head into his hands.

"Keep your $#!& together, Peter," he muttered, pressing his palms over his eyelids, "it was just a dream..."

A severely disturbing dream about oversized metal scissors cutting open his skin, gloved hands winding cables tightly about exposed bone, masked faces without mouths reassuring him in a foreign language that meant nothing as they thrust computer chips deep into raw flesh. With a shudder of revulsion, he recalled the desperate need to cry out, to beg them to stop, only to find his lips locked together by a wicked contraption that was somehow strapped _into_ and over his mouth.

He was still trying to make sense of the evil nightmare when he heard a muffled shout from elsewhere in the ship, followed shortly by a loud bellow. Adrenaline carried his bare feet to Gamora's compartment. The door slid open with a quiet hiss before Peter had his fist half-raised to knock.

He saw a flash of dark, wet eyes before she fell forward and pressed herself against his chest.

"G-Gamora!?" he yelped in surprise, arms flying from his sides to hover dumbly over the warm, scantily-clad body of the woman who could snap him in two if he so much as thought about touching her. "Wh-What are you...?"

"Shut up and hold me, Peter," she murmured not unkindly.

Slowly, cautiously, he wrapped his arms around her shoulders – that was probably safest – and pulled her close. He was shocked to find that she was shivering. A sudden inspiration struck him. _Stranger things have happened, right?_ He decided to go out on a limb...

"Nightmare?" he asked.

"Thanos..." she mumbled into his shirt. "Only... he wasn't..." She took a steadying breath. "It was... _different_..." He felt her tense suddenly and her eyes snapped up to meet his. "How did you know?"

"Creepy doctors with blue skins in metal masks?" he ventured.

Peter thought he'd leave out the part about the invasive mouth restraint. Aside from it being horrible enough to remember, much less talk about, Peter thought that admitting to wanting to scream and beg would sort of tarnish his reputation. Besides, he figured that if they'd really shared the same dream, she'd know about it anyway.

Gamora's reaction wasn't quite what he expected, though, truth be told, he wasn't sure exactly what he'd been expecting. With a curse that made Peter's eyebrows climb, the green-skinned beauty whirled from his embrace and dashed down the hall, gracefully sidestepping Drax the Destroyer, who was just emerging from his quarters wearing a formidable frown on his tattooed face.

"Gamora, wait!" Peter called and stumbled after her, not quite managing to match her grace as he squeezed his way past Drax.

"Did you have disconcerting dreams too, Quill?" he heard the Destroyer's voice follow him down the hall. Peter was all the way to the common area before the meaning of the man's words fully registered.

* * *

Gamora didn't find Rocket at Groot's side in the cockpit, where she'd expected him to be. Before even making her way to the ladder, she pinpointed the little scavenger rummaging through the contents of the refrigerator in the common area. His ears were drawn down flat in aggravation and he was muttering a litany of colourful curses he must have picked up from all over the cosmos, some contradicting one another. Apparently he was searching for the biggest bottle of the strongest stuff he could find.

Gamora became aware of Peter and Drax bringing up the rear. She cleared her throat and the furtive raccoon jerked upright, bumping his head on one of the racks inside the fridge on his way up.

" _What_?" he squawked indignantly, a harassed look on his face as he practically leapt away from the refrigerator to face her. His eyes were bleary as he tried to look at all of his fellow Guardians at once and Gamora thought he must still be exhausted. "The hell're all'a ya gawpin' at!?"

He kicked the fridge door closed awkwardly as he tried in vain to hide a bulky object behind his back.

"Family meeting, Rocket," Peter announced, and Gamora watched Rocket grimace. The hunted-looking raccoon by the refrigerator peered this way and that for an escape route.

"What— _now_? It's the middle of the frickin' night, case ya hadn't noticed," the little scoundrel tried to smooth-talk his way out. "Ya _do_ know I already know what yer gonna say, though, right?"

"That may be true, small one," Drax said seriously, "but is it not important that we, in turn, know what _you_ are thinking?"

Rocket stared at the tattooed man in disbelief, his mouth hanging open slightly. After a long, defiant silence, the raccoon's ears wilted and he tossed aside the liquor he'd meant to drown his sorrows in with a dramatic sigh. The bottle was huge in his tiny hands, and Gamora had to wince - most likely he'd been planning on emptying the entire bottle by himself.

" _Fine_..." Rocket grumbled. And then he looked up at Gamora sullenly. If he could have pouted, she was sure he would have been pouting up a storm. "Ain't nothin' wrong with my liver, G'mora. Size got nothin' t'do with it!"

* * *

Rocket cringed as his headache peaked. His eyes itched incessantly and they kept watering, probably because he could not stop rubbing them. The raccoon's shoulder muscles were locked in a cramp, his neck was stiff and his head felt tight as a drum. Again, he found himself wiping at his eyes and let out an annoyed sigh. What he _really_ needed was enough booze to make him pass out, not this wishy-washy family meeting nonsense.

But then the group of tall people around him all sat down on the floor and everyone was at eye level. Rocket caught Quill's amused thought of "a bunch of jackasses _sitting_ in a circle" and couldn't help a smirk forming on his own lips.

"Your dream was somehow broadcast to all of us," Gamora said without preamble, "probably as a result of your new telepathic abilities."

"You have some really freaky nightmares, dude," Quill piped up. Gamora frowned at him and he stuffed his hands in his pockets sullenly. "Just sayin'..."

"Arright," Rocket sighed, folding his arms across his chest, "before any of ya ask, no, I don't have 'em every night, only after a krutack day like this one, and no, talking about it _won't_ make me feel better."

This did not seem to satisfy his fellow Guardians, however. They wanted this out in the open. What they didn't seem to grasp was that, while it was what they thought was best, it still wasn't what Rocket wanted. He wanted to think about it as little as possible, dull the edge with a stiff drink or two and then hopefully forget and go back to sleep, or at least blissful unconsciousness.

Why couldn't they just leave him be?

Fair enough, they'd all had to live through his horrible dream tonight, and as a side note, sharing dreams was flarkin' creepy and should never ever happen again, but, either way, that didn't give them the right to pry. To top it all, the number one question on everyone's mind seemed to be "Were your creators a group of sadistic Kree scientists?" (or "blue-skinned alien bastards" as Quill so eloquently thought of them) and somehow that bothered Rocket.

"They're jus' nightmares," he assured them, picking at the fabric of his borrowed shirt, "they ain't flashbacks or real stuff like that. Least, I don't think they are..."

"How do you mean?" Gamora asked quickly, no doubt hoping to get her question out before the raccoon decided he'd said enough on the subject.

"I _mean_ they can't be, coz it ain't always the same," Rocket replied grudgingly, scratching absently at an ear, "sometimes they're aliens, like tonight, sometimes they're just machines with computer voices, sometimes it's some frickin' humie with red eyes and a white face, wearin' a shiny red gem on his forehead..."

He decided not to tell them about the time the gloved doctors picking at his innards wore the faces of the very people who were sitting in this circle with him right now. _They'll probably take it the wrong way, and I can't exactly help what I dream, anyway..._ he thought defensively.

A surprised thought from Gamora drew his attention. _That's why he said I was half right...!_ she thought as her eyes widened. _He doesn't speak of it, because he doesn't know._ Rocket grunted. The waves of sympathy she gave off was almost too much to bear. At that moment, her mind was a maelstrom Rocket did his best to stay out of. She had some very personal stuff going through her head right now - Thanos stuff. She respected his privacy and so he thought he owed her the same courtesy.

Rocket rubbed his eyes tiredly, but there was no way anyone was getting any sleep tonight, least of all him. It'd probably be safest to sleep when everyone else was awake so he didn't accidentally pass his nightmares on to them. At least tonight had been one of the milder ones. He didn't want to see their reaction to the _really_ bad ones...

Quill somehow detected that he had missed something. He also seemed to realize that the mood was about to turn severely morbid and, as he had a talent for glark like this, he decided to lighten the mood... Star-Lord style.

"Oh, no, no, no," Rocket protested at the glint in Quill's eye as much as at the completely random idea that just crossed their undaunted leader's mind, "no, no, no! No way, Quill, forget it!"

"Trust me, Rocket," he shouted over his shoulder as he hurried to fetch something from his cabin, "this will be great!"

Rocket covered his face with a groan.

"I am Groot?" his big tree buddy asked earnestly.

"Wait'n see," the irritated raccoon muttered, "you'll prob'ly love it, ya traitor!"

* * *

Gamora found herself pleasantly distracted by the rest of the crew's antics. Peter had unearthed what he called a new version of some ancient board game from Terra called 'Scrabble'. By "new" he probably meant that the tiles weren't in Earth-gibberish, but actual letters. Of the players who were not actively cheating ( _I'm on to you, Rocket!_ she thought at him, and he had the cheek to wink at her!), Drax was faring the best at producing long - and often gruesome - words out of a random pile of letters.

"I'm still not sold on you spelling 'evisceration' with a 'c' in it..." Peter complained, to which Drax promptly replied that he had been unaware that the game involved money.

Groot was in the middle of packing out "Groot" with his tiles when, suddenly, Rocket fell onto his back laughing. Gamora shared a confused look with the others, listening to the raccoon's laughter fill the room. When he finally sat up with one last snort of hilarity, Rocket directed his gaze at Peter.

"Aww, man, Quill!" the raccoon chortled. "Ya gotta tell 'em what you were just thinkin' about! Yer a frickin' riot!"

"Hey, man, that's not fair!" Peter complained, cheeks colouring with embarrassment.

"This had better not be about metaphors," Drax grated in a warning tone.

The man might not recognize a metaphor when he heard one, but anyone would notice if they became the butt of every 'literal' joke Rocket and Peter could come up with. Peter knew trouble when he saw it and heroically decided to sacrifice his pride for the sake of peace.

"I was just thinking about those Skrulls, man," he explained rather unwillingly, "They can take on any form they want. It's totally uncool how they can look like anyone and, you know, take anyone's place..."

Gamora nodded, but failed to see why this would amuse Rocket so greatly.

"That ain't all ya were thinkin'..." Rocket prodded with a wicked grin. "Go on!"

"C'mon, man," Peter objected, "it wasn't _that_ funny..."

Rocket stared him down, tail swishing menacingly.

"Okay, okay...! I was sort of imagining the Skrulls trying to take over the Earth and how they could disguise themselves as cows and no one would notice until it was too late and it would be called the _Cowpocalypse_!" he admitted in a rush.

Gamora struggled to keep herself from giggling, not so much at the absurd scenario Peter's outrageous imagination had conjured up, but at the usually confident man's utterly sheepish expression. Drax shook his head and proceeded to build another grisly word with his Scrabble tiles.

"I am Groot?" their friendly tree man asked politely.

"He wants to know what a 'cow' looks like!" Rocket chuckled and Peter groaned.

The relaxed atmosphere did much to settle everyone's nerves. As night crept on into early morning, Rocket's eyes began drooping and soon he was yawning so frequently that Gamora saw more of his teeth, tongue and tonsils (frankly, she was surprised he even had those) than the rest of his face. She thought it was quite cute, in a feral kind of way, how the tip of his tongue curled inward every time a particularly wide yawn came on.

Hoping he wouldn't realize that she had noticed, Gamora immersed herself in the game. Despite everyone's original misgivings, she was surprised to find herself genuinely enjoying it.

"It is your turn to play, Rocket," Drax urged, eager for his turn so he could spell out his next bloodthirsty word. "Rocket?"

Gamora looked up just in time to see Peter put his fingers to his lips conspiratorially, apparently forgetting that Drax would not necessarily understand what the symbol meant. But the tattooed warrior merely nodded knowingly. Gamora followed their eyes and saw that their feisty furball was slumped against one of Groot's sturdy bark limbs, fast asleep, a deep, peaceful vibration rumbling from inside his little chest.

The remaining Guardians of the Galaxy shared a fond smile before continuing their game as quietly as possible so as not to wake their purring team mate.

* * *

Intense pain flared behind his eyes and he saw a wide, grinning mouth below a pair of red irises.

 _"Come to me, sweet thing..."_

A terrible nightmare ensued.

 _Blink._

Rocket woke up feeling groggy and not at all good. His muscles ached like he'd been wrestling a thing with way too many arms. He was aware of his pounding headache, but somehow the rest of his senses felt dull, like they had been wrapped in cotton. He tried to open his eyes and was alarmed that his eyelids weren't responding as they should. He tried to sit up, but found that he couldn't move; something was pinning his arms to his sides - he was trapped!

With a cry, he began to thrash about.

"Easy, easy," came a familiar voice.

"Q-Quill?" he gasped. Rocket dragged his eyes open and the fuzzy image of Peter Quill slowly swirled into focus. The man looked very serious. "Wh-What happened? Whaz goin' on?"

"We're... not sure," Quill admitted, scratching his head, "It's alright, Groot, you can let go now."

Groot's vines, tangled around the raccoon's arms and legs, slowly retracted. Without the tree man to support him, Rocket dropped to the floor, sitting down hard. He blinked and looked around. The inside of the ship was a mess. The place looked like a succession of epic bar brawls had passed through.

After a few moments, Quill's thoughts seeped through to him and he gaped.

"Wait— _I_ did this!?" Rocket exclaimed incredulously.

"I am Groot," the wooden man explained.

Rocket felt his stomach take a plunge. His hackles rose at the thought.

"I... what? N-No, I don't remember that..."

"'Fraid so, bud," Quill confirmed slowly, "Look, wherever you got these telepathic powers from, I don't think they're a one way deal."

"Wh-Whadaya mean?" Rocket rasped hoarsely.

"One moment you were sleeping, the next you were trying to take off in the Milano's lifeboat," Gamora continued, "We barely managed to stop you from leaving the ship. Peter had to sedate you."

"Yeah, sorry about that, by the way," Quill chimed in. "It was either Drax slap you upside the head or I shoot you with the tranq gun."

"Why..." Rocket began, but found his mouth completely dry and had to swallow before he could finish, "why's this happenin' to me?"

"Don't worry," Quill said, gently placing his hand on the bewildered raccoon's shoulder as he knelt beside him, "I have a friend, she's a telepath too. I think she'll be able to help us out."

"O-Okay..." Rocket murmured and suddenly wished he could remember exactly what he had been dreaming about.

The raccoon was vaguely aware of the crew bustling around him.

"Gamora, set a course for Rigel 7."

"Right!"


	7. Rigel 7

**Author's Note: Mantis makes her first appearance in this chapter. If you haven't seen Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2 yet, no worries (GO SEE IT NOW!), but if you have, you will notice that my version of Mantis is _very_ different to the one in the movie (I love the movie version, she is adorable!). The reason for the huge difference is that I have based my interpretation on what little I could gather from the comic books I managed to get my hands on. It is too late to change her and it doesn't feel right to simply use another name, so I hope seeing an alternate Mantis (telepath as opposed to empath, for example) isn't too jarring that it detracts from the story. Thanks for understanding!**

 **Lots of love,**

 **Prince-in-Disguise!**

* * *

They finally arrived on Rigel 7. There had been no further incidents of Rocket losing control of himself, but now that he was aware of it, he thought he could almost feel it... the pressure of another presence... lurking somewhere in the corners of his mind like a poisonous spider. His headache grew exponentially worse the more he fought it.

By the time he stepped off the Milano with the others to find this friend of Quill's, his head was buzzing. Rocket tried hard to think past the thick wall of his migraine. His eyes felt swollen, his throat raw and every part of him strangely jittery.

Quill was saying something, but at the same time, he was thinking something else and Rocket just hurt too much all over to focus. Suddenly a pair of blue eyes were at eye level with him. There was a tinge of concern in those eyes. Rocket watched the lips move, but all the dazed raccoon could hear was a distant ringing against the hurricane of sound that was the thoughts of others all around him. It felt like he didn't even have enough room in his head for his _own_ thoughts. Nothing seemed to make sense.

A firm hand on his shoulder helped bring him back to the here and now. Trembling, he grasped Quill's hand with both paws as if by doing so he could ground himself in reality.

"It's too _loud_ , Pete!" he panted, nails digging. He barely registered Quill's flinch. "I ca—I can't—"

The noise intensified once more and whatever he'd been about to say simply slipped away. In vain, he squeezed his eyes shut and covered his ears against the roaring thunder in his head. His brain felt as though it might burst any second now as what seemed like the thoughts of every single person on the planet tried to force a way into the little raccoon's already overflowing mind.

"Sh-Shut 'em up, I gotta—"

 _Rocket_ , came Gamora's thought, hushed, but clear as crystal, _I'm here._ He felt her close by. She was solid. She was real. The rest of the noise slowly faded to the background. _That's it, focus on me_ , her mental whisper coaxed. Her presence was bright against the black tempest of thoughts engulfing his consciousness. _Just focus on me._ Like a beacon from a lighthouse, she guided him safely through the heaving waves and the jagged rocks of the storm battering his exhausted mind. He let out a grateful sigh of relief as the outside world grew dimmer.

When his eyes popped open, Rocket found Gamora's arms folded around him in a protective hug. He was vaguely surprised that his fight or flight instinct hadn't kicked in, but somehow this felt... safe. She felt safe. Her lips were pressed to his ear and he realized that she was humming to him softly.

 _For a moment there I thought we'd lost you,_ she thought with a smile, pulling back to meet his eyes with a meaningful stare. _Welcome back, Rocket._

 _That song, it's nice_ , the thought slipped before Rocket could stop it. His ears flicked with embarrassment and Gamora's smile deepened. The flustered raccoon caught a prickly sensation wafting from someone else close by... Quill. _Hey, Pete's gettin' jealous_ , he warned silently.

 _I know_ , she thought back simply. _So is Groot._

"What!?" Rocket yelped before remembering that there was no way Gamora could hear Groot's thoughts. "Yer messin' with me, aren't ya?"

She sent him a mischievous wink.

Rocket wanted to grin at her wicked sense of humour, but then the chaos of everything outside was pressing down on him again from all sides, threatening to sweep over him once more. His throat tightened as the noise tried to invade him. His distress must have shown on his face, for Gamora's mirth drained away as her eyes softened.

 _Stay with me?_ he pleaded silently, not trusting his voice.

 _Of course_ , she responded immediately.

He felt a little giddy as his feet left the ground and he was scooped up in the green assassin's firm hold. She nodded curtly at Quill to lead the way before returning her full attention to the vulnerable creature in her arms.

"All right, you two have _got_ to stop doin' that," he heard Quill mutter.

* * *

Peter Quill, also known as the legendary Star-Lord, was out of breath. The uncomfortable tickle of sweat sliding down between his shoulder blades was just another distraction he could have done without as he did his best to keep the attackers away with his blasters. Rocket was safely up on Groot's shoulder so Gamora could have her hands free, but that just meant that the scores of bounty hunters were now focusing on the tree man and, while he was made of sturdier stuff than most of the Guardians, Groot was not indestructible.

Peter, Gamora and Drax made a defensive triangle around the raccoon and his tree friend, while Rocket, high on his perch, showered the enemies with deadly volleys from his twin mini-bazookas. Groot, branches stretching and swatting foes away ruthlessly, was turning in a slow circuit to give Rocket a panoramic view of all his possible targets.

Now, Rigel 7 was far from lawless, usually, but today it seemed that every single scumbag had crawled up from the underbelly of the market city Peter and his friends were trying to traverse, almost like they'd known the Guardians were coming. As if someone was watching them... It wasn't impossible. Peter had caught himself wondering if that hitchhiker inside of Rocket's head – however the hell they got there in the first place...! – might not be part of their bounty hunter problem. This just made it more important that they reach their destination.

"G'mora, look out!" Rocket cried out suddenly.

Before Peter or Gamora could react, the fluffy blur leapt off Groot's shoulder and dove straight at their green assassin. Gamora, who had been facing two thugs, keeping them at arm's length with her sword, went down with a grunt, just as a third attacker appeared out of thin air. The dagger that had been meant for Gamora's ribs sliced through the empty air above Rocket's head and the nimble raccoon wasted no time in dispatching its wielder. He then proceeded to blast the two thugs Gamora fought previously.

Peter just wanted to see Gamora on her feet, but was rewarded with a punch to the gut for not paying attention to the fight. _Oh, boy..._ he thought, still struggling to get his breath back as he was lifted off the ground by the beefy brute he'd allowed to come too close to him. With a sinking feeling, he realized that his blasters had slipped from his grasp when the goon grabbed him. One of Drax's knives came singing past his ear and planted itself in the eye of his bulky assailant. Peter's unceremonious impact with the solid ground below jarred his teeth, but he turned and nodded his thanks to the Destroyer.

Quickly, he rescued his weapons from the ground and started blasting thugs left and right. He was ducking a decidedly nasty-looking hook-and-chain weapon swung by one of the bounty hunters when his brain was suddenly filled with sharp, harsh static.

 _QUILL, HELP!_

 _That's Rocket!_ he realized. Alarmed, he ignited his boot jets to get a better look at the situation. He couldn't tell whether Rocket's cry for help had reached any of the others or just him, but they were all busy fighting for their lives. Peter's eyes scanned the battlefield desperately for Rocket, but the trigger-happy little furball was nowhere in sight. _Rocket, c'mon, man, where are you?_

His vision blurred as the raccoon overloaded his senses with another panicked mental shout, even louder than the first. Peter vigorously blinked away the wave of dizziness and tried to concentrate on finding any sign of Rocket. Just then, he saw a slight ripple in the air, like the effects of a heat wave, moving away from the fight. He felt an icy lump in the pit of his stomach. _One of those invisible dudes got Rocket!_

He meant to blast off in that direction, but there was a sharp pain in his leg and the world suddenly did a lopsided cartwheel. Peter found himself on the ground, winded, the hook-and-chain weapon tangled about his legs and the chain-wielding maniac standing over him with a nasty grin.

"Groot!" he called, rolling over onto his back and zapping the leering thug with his blasters. He bit his lip, trying to ignore the agony flaring in his leg as he launched himself toward their big tree warrior, the chain dragging carelessly behind him. "Groot, they got Rocket!"

His warning was unnecessary. From his vantage point, Peter could see that Groot had indeed also heard the raccoon's call. The tall tree man was already making his way through the crowd of enemies, lumbering in the direction Peter had last seen the ripples in the air. Groot seemed to be a lot more sensitive to Rocket's messages than any of the other Guardians, even when they weren't directed at him – how else could he have led them straight to that Skrull's van the last time?

Peter crash-landed rather clumsily between Drax and Gamora, his wounded leg giving out beneath him the moment he tried to put any weight on it.

" _Where_ is the small one?" Drax asked urgently, knives flashing as he defended his friends from the oncoming attackers. "We need to get him back!"

"One of those invisible guys must've grabbed him," Peter hissed through gritted teeth as Gamora removed the chain's hook from his calf. He would have put up more of a scene for her – she seemed to enjoy making him squeal – but, at that moment, he only had eyes for their friendly tree giant, who was advancing towards the point where he'd last seen Rocket. "He called out to me, but I think Groot heard him too."

"I am Groot!" the tree man confirmed.

"Yeah, Groot! You go get 'em!" Peter cheered as he watched Groot close in on the barely detectable target.

Suddenly, Groot stopped and looked around, perplexed.

Peter frowned. Everywhere around the ring of bounty hunters and their prey, the air was now shimmering with the effect of invisibility devices moving about. But Groot knew how to locate Rocket... if only he'd call out again. A knot of dread forming in his middle, Peter realized that the light-headedness he'd been staving off since Rocket's earlier cries had subsided completely; it had been several minutes since the raccoon's last terrified message.

 _C'mon, buddy, why've you gone quiet?_ he thought at the little raccoon, hoping that, somehow, Rocket would hear him. _Let us know where you are, Rocky..._ Peter caught himself wishing that he could have had telepathy, too...

"I am Groot!?" the wooden giant bellowed.

But Rocket did not answer.

Peter was just about to start shooting at anything that moved, surrounding bounty hunters be damned, when a sound like a struck gong resounded through the air of the otherwise deserted marketplace. Instantly, the blue-skinned guy in front of Peter – who'd been about to stick a very long knife in him, he noted with a belated shudder – froze. Dark blood spurted from the man's nose as his widely-spaced eyes rolled to the back of his elongated head. The goon dropped to the ground like a sack of dirt. Much to Peter and the rest of the Guardians' surprise, all of the bounty hunters began falling over like so many dominoes.

The last of their attackers fell to reveal a slight, raven-haired beauty with green skin a shade or two darker than Gamora's. She stood amidst the carpet of unconscious bounty hunters like a lone flower, her fine, petal-like garment adding to the illusion. She studied the Guardians with pleasant, almond-shaped eyes. On the top of her head, the pair of antennae poking out from beneath her dark fringe twitched almost imperceptibly. She wore a slightly wistful, but knowing smile - the look of someone who had the gift of clairvoyance but did not dare share her visions of the future with anyone.

Peter had never been so glad to see anyone in his life.

"Mantis!" he exclaimed, lurching to his feet and hobbling over to her. "Just the woman I wanted to see!"

"No time for pleasantries, Peter Quill," she said, raising an elegant, green palm to forestall him, "I sense a mind in distress."

"That would be my buddy, Rocket," Peter supplied.

"I know," was all she said in reply.

"Can you find him?" he asked hopefully.

"Yes," she answered immediately, as if she'd only been waiting good-naturedly on him to finish a question she already knew he would ask. She closed her eyes and turned slowly, antennae trembling. "He's feint... very feint... but... ah!"

Her lily-shaped skirt swished as she glided gracefully to the other side of the square, in almost the exact opposite direction Groot had been heading. She slammed her heel down on something. Sparks flew, and the hidden kidnapper became visible.

So did Rocket.

Heart in his throat, Peter stumbled closer. He was barely aware of his crew doing the same. Courtesy of his hurt leg, Peter fell the rest of the way to where the raccoon lay motionless in the arms of his downed captor. Already, the fiend had managed to slip a muzzle over the pale-furred snout. A broad, flat strap with a button in front – somehow the thing reminded Peter of one of those old-fashioned kiddie seatbelts – was tightly wrapped all around the raccoon's upper body like a straitjacket. Unlike the buttons on those old seatbelts, Peter doubted this one was for instant releasing, though. Rocket's dark eyes, half-lidded and glistening, had a dazed look to them and his third eyelids were showing. Shivers wracked the small, furry frame.

Peter felt his fists clench and unclench involuntarily as an unfathomable rage swept through him. He tried to blink away the image of a helpless little frog, kicking feebly as a pair of cruel hands impaled it with a stick.

A hand on his arm dispelled the hateful flashback.

 _Focus, Peter_ , Mantis advised before taking her hand away. _Let your friend know he is safe._

"Hey, Rocky," he whispered hoarsely, gathering the limp raccoon in his arms.

 _Pete? Where are you? Pete?_ Rocket's scared thoughts began leaking out slowly, like unwilling tears. He could feel the raccoon's breathing pick up speed. The severely dilated pupils darted anxiously, unseeing.

"Hang on, bud, it's gonna be okay..." Peter soothed, ever so gently unhooking the cruel contraption that was locking his small friend's jaws together. "I'm right here..."

"I am _Groot_..."

"Yeah," Peter amended, "we're _all_ here."

He expected Rocket to start talking, preferably even cussing (because, you know, that was a sign that he was all right) as soon as he was free of the muzzle, but he kept his jaws clamped tightly together, turned his face away and continued to shiver.

"What ails him?" Drax demanded just as he finished slicing the belt trapping Rocket's arms – he seemed just as distrustful of the button as Peter himself felt. "He does not look well."

Gamora looked up from where she was rifling through the prone kidnapper's pockets rather forcefully – he'd wake up with more than a few unexplained bruises, that was for sure. Lips pressed together in a grim line, their green assassin produced a tiny bottle she'd found and passed it to Peter. Holding it up to the light, he could make out a few leftover drops. There were dark flecks swirling sluggishly in the clear liquid.

"What the _hell_ did they give him?" Peter seethed, staring uselessly at the bottle sitting between his thumb and forefinger.

And then, without warning, Groot snatched the vial from his hand and crushed it in a massive fist. Peter practically jumped.

"I am Groot," the tree man shrugged apologetically. He closed his eyes, as if deep in thought. Was he... _analyzing_ the stuff...? When he opened them again, he nodded and spoke to Mantis.

"Of course!" the telepath exclaimed, clapping her hands together. Somehow, she made even such an exuberant gesture seem refined. Despite her delicate appearance, however, Peter knew from firsthand experience that she was a formidable martial artist – he still meant to ask her about that move she'd used to knock out all those bounty hunters at once. "I have just the thing!"

Peter shared a confused frown with Drax and Gamora before shaking his head.

"Guess we better go before these rejects wake up, anyway," he conceded, gently passing the delirious raccoon into Gamora's waiting arms.

She must have thought something at him, because Rocket quit squirming as soon as she held him to her chest. Peter felt his heart wrench as he watched the little guy unconsciously curl his tiny fingers around one of her much larger green ones.

"That was too close..." Peter heard their assassin whisper fiercely as Drax hauled him to his feet to follow Groot and Mantis.

* * *

The moment he impacted with the dirt, Rocket knew. He just _knew_ that no one had seen him go down.

The clamour of milling minds all around him made thinking difficult. He'd been hard-pressed just keeping his aim straight blasting bounty hunters from his viewpoint high atop Groot's shoulder. Now, with his nose in the dust, struggling to breathe and trying to fight off an unseen attacker with his arms strapped to his sides by some freaky gizmo, formulating coherent thought was all but impossible.

When a pair of expensive-smelling leather gloves suddenly came into view holding a muzzle, the stifled raccoon came to his senses. But as soon as he opened his jaws to cry out, another set of hands came out of nowhere and shoved a large object, soft and sponge-like, into his mouth. Gagging, he tried to spit it out, to bite the fingers keeping the thing there, but then the sponge became wet and it started tasting sweet; not the good kind of sweet, but an unpleasant sort of tang with a strange aftertaste.

Panic frazzled his nerves as his vision went cloudy.

He tried calling for his friends, but the world became paved in slick, white tiles. Even the sky seemed made up of red-spattered white tiles. There were hands everywhere – blood-covered hands clawing their way up through the white, white tiles, leaving smears as they reached for him; hands pinning his arms to his sides, hands clamping down on his snout, hands touching him everywhere, fondling the raw flesh of barely-healed implants.

He grit his teeth and did his best to hold back the pathetic whine rising in his throat. Heart pounding, he fought the hands, but he could see nothing but endless stretches of pure white tiles all around him, no window, no door, no crevice, no escape.

He thought he could hear his family's voices, calling to him, then. Somewhere, outside, his family was calling for him. But where? _Where_?

From far, far away, a distant melody began tugging at his memory. The hands melted away at the sound of the simple yet unforgettable tune and his white tile world was replaced by the vast, empty stillness of space. A starry canopy was visible through the ship's main window. He thought it was Gamora who was humming quietly in his ear.

 _That song... it's nice..._ he thought, wondering why he felt like this must have happened before.

And then he no longer cared as he was enveloped in that beautiful sunset of belonging he'd first experienced that day when his team came for him down in the waterways and again that night when he touched minds with Gamora.

Knowing that he was safe, Rocket sheltered in the green woman's secure embrace...

* * *

Deft fingers were caressing his fur. When Rocket opened his eyes, he found himself curled up in Gamora's lap. He blinked uncertainly.

"G'mora...?" he groaned sleepily.

"Hey," she greeted with a smile that was more than a little relieved.

"The flark are we?" he asked, peering at their surroundings suspiciously.

Gamora was seated on an ostentatiously plush sofa in the middle of a sitting room he had never seen before in his life. He stretched and yawned before clambering down to get a better look at all the splendour. The door leading out onto a spacious balcony was carved and inlaid with gold and fist-sized gems that made his outlaw instincts itch. Through the tall window, he could make out the promise of a great view from the balcony as it looked out over an ocean of gently lapping waves. From the gold-and-crystal chandeliers to the hand-woven carpet, the place seemed far too grandiose to fit in with the few glimpses he'd had of Rigel 7.

In fact, it was too perfect to be real altogether.

"This is a tower I have pieced together from threads of fantasy," came an unfamiliar voice. "I thought you would like it better than the place your subconscious was expecting you to wake."

Growling, Rocket spun to face the newcomer. Her skin was green, like Gamora's, and she moved with the deadly poise of someone who was in perfect balance with the world around her, but that was where the similarities ended. Why hadn't he smelled her? She certainly wore enough flowers on her. Then again, he couldn't smell the sea air, either.

"This is Mantis, Peter's friend. She is the telepath he spoke of," Gamora said, rising from her position on the sofa. "She rescued you from the bounty hunters."

"I apologize for any confusion," the new green lady continued with a rueful smile, "but the drug they gave you is a strong one, and I fear I could not wait for you to wake. So we speak here, in your unconscious mind."

Rocket felt his ears draw down and his lips peel back in the beginnings of a snarl. He remembered the grabbing hands, but not much else... They must have fed him something really potent; his system was fairly resistant to most substances.

And then the realization hit him.

"Wait... ya mean... we're talking... _inside_ my _head_?" Rocket repeated sceptically.

"Your body is sleeping, but your mind is conversing with us, yes," the telepath, Mantis, confirmed, those little antennae on her head bobbing slightly as she nodded.

"Okay, firstly, that's just so _weird_ ~!" he exclaimed. He'd seen his fair share of mind games, but _this_ was more than a little unnerving. He crossed his arms firmly and fixed the telepath with a frown. "And, secondly, I don't appreciate people pokin' around in my brain. I don't trust you, lady, so if ya don't mind, I want you out. Now." Belatedly, his gaze travelled to the other green woman in the room and he added: "No offence, G'mora, but I don't like this one bit."

"Rocket, if it weren't for Mantis, we wouldn't even be having this conversation," Gamora chided with a sigh. "Besides, Peter trusts her."

"Well, if yer insinuating that I'm acting ungrateful, yer not wrong," Rocket grumbled. "And Quill's a gullible gronad."

"Forgive me, Rocket," the telepath, Mantis, interjected calmly, "I knew you would not feel comfortable with my intrusion. That is why I brought Lady Gamora with me – I have seen how much she and the others care for you. I will be leaving once I have explained, but there is something important that she must do for you if you wish to keep your sanity."

"My sanity...?" he swallowed hard and turned wide eyes to Gamora, who nodded gravely.

"I have discovered the source of your telepathic powers. It emanates from a hostile presence infesting the lower recesses of your subconscious," Mantis explained.

Rocket felt a sudden jolt of revulsion when, with a loud thud, a ghostly face pressed itself up against the glass of the balcony window and grinned much too broadly at him. Mantis frowned in that direction and the drapes drew themselves shut, obscuring those eyes, like glowing red augers, from view.

"Wh-What the _hell_ was that!?" Rocket demanded. He could feel the hair at the back of his neck and all along his spine try to stand up against his jumpsuit.

Upon looking down, he realized that he was gripping the Hadron Enforcer in his shaking paws. _The hell did this come from?_ At this baffled thought, the oversized weapon promptly disappeared. He shook his head incredulously.

"I suppose you could describe it as the manifestation of a type of... mental 'infection'... Hm, though that's not quite accurate..." Mantis answered, thoughtfully tapping a black-tipped fingernail to her chin. "I am keeping it at bay, for the moment, but it does not like my or Lady Gamora's being here."

" _That_ thing needs to _go_! _Right_ now!" the spooked raccoon shouted. "I-I don't want it here! How do I get rid of it!?"

He gave a start when Gamora's hand settled on his head, scratching soothingly behind one ear. Rocket hadn't been aware of moving closer to her, but now he caught himself clinging to her leg. It took all of his self-control to let go. Looking up at Gamora, he saw no pity in her eyes, only compassion, as she continued to run her fingertips lightly through his fur.

He was grateful for that.

"It would have been easier if we could have removed it while it was still dormant," Mantis admitted. "Time has only given it a chance to find roots, to fester."

"Wha'zat mean?" Rocket asked, though he was not sure he wanted to know.

"Much like the process of lancing an infected wound, bad things will spill out once we do," Mantis replied cryptically.

"Like... _what_...? Bad memories?" the raccoon prodded.

"Bad memories, real and fabricated," the telepath elaborated. "For this reason, I am going to send you back into unconsciousness. It is keyed to _your_ memories and will be able to manipulate you more easily."

"What...!? But—"

"Rocket..." Gamora knelt in front of him and placed her hands on his shoulders. Her expression was sombre as she searched his eyes with hers. "Do you trust me?"

"Yeah, 'course I trust you, but—"

"Then you must allow me to handle this," she said, her eyes imploring.

Rocket's stomach did a somersault when someone banged on the door to the balcony with all the force of a battering ram. His skin crawled and his heart hammered as a second blow nearly knocked the door off its hinges.

"Lady Gamora, we do not have time for this...!" Mantis warned. For the first time, Rocket noted the sheen of sweat on the woman's brow. "Please hurry!"

"Are you ready, my friend?" Gamora asked. Her voice betrayed nothing, but her eyes were bright with urgency.

He didn't want her facing _his_ fears. He didn't want anyone fighting _his_ battles. But he wanted that _thing_ out of his head.

He wanted to trust her with his darkest secrets. But what frightened him more than the monster outside that door was the prospect of losing Gamora's respect. Once she saw the worst his memories had to offer, his dark side, all the shameful things he'd done and thought when he'd been at his lowest... would she ever again call him 'friend'? Or would her stare be filled with pity the next time their eyes met?

 _I've been there, too, Rocket. What's important is that you got out of it..._ she sent at him silently, her eyes painfully honest. D'ast it, he hadn't realized he'd been projecting his thoughts at her! _Please, Rocket, let me do this._

"Arright..." he said finally.

A relieved smile lit up Gamora's normally stoic features and she nodded to Mantis.

The sound of wood splintering, followed by a deafening crack, was the last thing he was aware of, and then Rocket Raccoon knew no more...

* * *

Her small friend disappeared just as the door leading out onto the tower's balcony exploded in a shower of splinters and rare gems and a disturbing abomination with red eyes swept into the room with an otherworldly shriek of rage. As promised, Mantis, too, winked out, and with her the small pocket of sanity the telepath had been maintaining with her presence.

The tower and its quaint little sitting room dissolved into the abandoned courtyard of a faded grey building. Its windows, black and gaping like empty eye sockets, were misaligned. Some were positioned at mad angles no self-respecting architect would ever place a window, some even intersecting one another.

The wild-eyed wraith charged her. Gamora raised her sword and the thing stopped. It eyed the gleaming weapon with undisguised hatred, turned and fled.

Not about to let the apparition escape, Gamora followed. The first step she took sounded like she was stepping on eggshells littering the floor, crunching underfoot. Upon closer inspection, she saw that they weren't shells at all. Millions upon millions of porcelain clown masks, cracked into so many shards, smiled brokenly up at her. She saw no immediate threat, but a sinister atmosphere blanketed the entire area and the place seemed to resonate with an old, long-buried hurt.

She shook her head and concentrated on finding her target. She was not here to unearth Rocket's pain from the past. She did not even know if he wanted to remember. She was fairly sure not even _he_ would be able to answer that question...

Her eyes quickly found a path covered in tiles so white, they seemed to shine. Tracks of deep crimson stained the stark white path, paw and boot prints alike. The paw prints appeared smudged in places, as if the hapless creature leaving them had slipped countless times only to get up once more. Trying not to think too hard about what this particular memory meant to Rocket, she followed the winding, blood-smeared path.

It led her through dark hallways stacked to the brim with cages, some towering so haphazardly that it seemed they must fall any minute, but somehow never moved. It led her through operating room after operating room after operating room. At one stage, the path she walked was on the ceiling of a great indoor arena and everything around her was upside-down. Strands of blood dripped upwards to make pools on the arena floor above her head.

The next room was even worse. Here, the path held only boot prints and drag marks.

 _Oh, Rocket..._

She averted her eyes and concentrated on keeping them fixed on the path as she tried to block out the desperate sounds assaulting her eardrums. It was all she could do not to rush off the path and put a stop to it, but she had a feeling that, if she left the path, she would never find it again.

 _It's only a memory. Real or fabricated, it's only a memory._

"Keep telling yourself that..."

Directly ahead of her, the path ended abruptly. At the far end, Gamora faced herself.

"Trying to get rid of me, hm?" Gamora asked the thing wearing her face.

"I could ask you the same," retorted her twin. "You're tougher than you look..."

"Too bad for you, I know where you stole this memory from," Gamora replied calmly, readying her sword. Fighting herself was hardly a shock after facing that Skrull.

Seeing that Gamora was not intimidated, the intruder switched tactics.

"There are so many deserted memories in here," continued the monster, hungry eyes flashing red. "Let's dust them off. There's so much about him you don't know - I know you're curious. I could show you..."

 _Bartering with Rocket's personal memories like their yours to give..._ Gamora seethed inwardly. _How dare you!_

"How about you _shut up_!?" Gamora roared, leaping at the thing that looked like her before it could react, sword thrusting forward.

The blade went straight through her twin's chest. The abomination sagged, bleeding black smoke.

"You—don't care about killing yourself..." she heard her own voice gurgle. "All right—then, h-how about this?"

To Gamora's horror, she found herself staring down her hilt at the impaled little raccoon sliding off her blade. She bit back the shock welling up inside her – this was _not_ Rocket – and finished the job.

Blink.

The lights went out and suddenly the thick smell of thriving plant life filled her nostrils. She was back in the overgrown greenhouse Mantis called home. The telepath was leaning over her, thumbing back her eyelids. Gamora sat up, eyes searching frantically for Rocket.

She found him just where she'd left him earlier, on the bed of leaves and exotic flowers Groot and Mantis had contrived to absorb the foreign substance from the drugged raccoon's body. He lay completely still, folded in on himself with his tail wrapped around him and his eyes squeezed shut. The slow rise and fall of his narrow chest was the only assurance Gamora had that she hadn't just killed him.

Mantis helped her to her feet and together they sat down on either side of the unconscious raccoon. The telepath's graceful, green fingers hovered just above his forehead like she was feeling for a mental heartbeat or something. For all Gamora knew, that was exactly what the woman was doing. The antennae sticking up through her pitch black hair quivered slightly and the woman's amused smile told her that she knew exactly what Gamora was thinking. The slender green assassin was just about to give Mantis a piece of her mind – although, admittedly, that was a poor choice of words – for poking around in her thoughts without permission when Rocket suddenly bolted upright.

"Wha—Wha' happened—where the hell am I!?" he gasped.

He gave Mantis a suspicious look, but no more than he would have for any stranger sitting so close to him. He blinked once before a look of pure bliss came over his features. For a moment, Gamora thought he was going to fall asleep again, but instead he smiled.

"I-It's gone all quiet... Everything's so... quiet..." he murmured in wonder. "A-And the flarkin' headache, that's gone, too! Wha'dya do, was it magic?"

"Lady Gamora has driven the malevolent presence away," Mantis said.

"I _killed_ it," Gamora corrected her sternly. "I'm sure of it."

"I'm afraid the adversary you just vanquished was only a small part of the whole threat, Lady Gamora," Mantis replied quietly.

"Forgot what it's s'posed to sound like with jus' _me_ in here..." Rocket marvelled, not paying much attention to the rest of the conversation.

The others filed in one by one and Mantis informed them of the situation.

"That's great news, bud!" Peter enthused, plunking down on the bed next to Rocket. An impish grin grew on their self-proclaimed leader's face. "Glad you're okay! Even if that means we'll just have cheat at poker the old-fashioned way, that's fine, too."

"The hell happened to _you_ , Quill?" the raccoon exclaimed, eyeing the half-terran's bandaged leg. "Looks like every time I turn my back, you get yerself injured. You must be losin' yer touch!"

"Hey, it wasn't _entirely_ my fault!" Peter protested.

"What percentage we talkin'?"

" _Really_? We're _still_ doing that?"

The green-skinned assassin had to smile at her small friend's antics. It was so good to see him relaxed. She refused to think back on all of the things she had witnessed while journeying through the raccoon's subconscious. She purposefully took those memories and buried them deep, down there where she stored away her own pain. For Rocket's sake.

* * *

Groot watched his companions celebrate in their incredibly verbal way. He, too, was very happy to have Rocket back. Now all they needed were some marshmallows – Groot himself had grown fond of them, too. He said as much in his own three words, and Rocket translated, like he always did. It was good to have things back to normal.

Blink.

No one noticed the tree man stagger back in confusion, swiping with his big hands at something unseen. His normally kind, dark eyes became dull and, for a moment, an unusual red sheen reflected off his pupils.

"I am... _Groot_..." he rumbled to himself, a vicious sneer tainting his usually placid wooden features.


	8. I Am Groot

Rocket Raccoon could be heard cursing loudly from all the way down the hall like there was no tomorrow. Gamora was on her way to find Peter, but she paused in the doorway to smile fondly. Mantis had offered to teach the little raccoon to defend himself against future mental attacks and, by the sound of it, he was not quite mastering the art. Rocket was seated, cross-legged, on the moss-covered stone floor opposite the green-skinned psychic, trying to imitate her calm posture, but he kept fidgeting, his tail twitching restlessly and his ears rotating perpetually.

"Instead of _defending_ against my attack, you must shift your focus to _unmaking_ it – deny its existence. An attack that does not exist, cannot do you harm," Mantis instructed patiently. Her words had the ring of something she'd repeated many more times than just once.

"D'ast, ya make it sound _easy_...!" huffed the frustrated raccoon, tugging at his ears.

"It _should_ be easy, Rocket," the telepath insisted, gesturing with a delicate hand. "You are skilled at building things – once you know how they work, you can take them apart without a second thought. This exercise follows the same principle."

"It ain't that simple," Rocket groaned. "If it were that simple, I woulda beat you already! 'Sides, how should I know what yer attacks are made of?" He sneezed and, looking around the room at the verdantly growing plant life accusingly, made a face. "Frickin' flowers, fer all I know!"

"Well, that's a start..." Mantis smiled encouragingly. "I'm going to send you a cloaked thought. Try to detect and analyze it."

Rocket's eyes widened and his tail stood on end as he tried to watch everywhere at once. Then his ears shot up.

"I thought I heard—Where is it?" he whined. "I don't see nothin'!"

"It went right past you," the telepath responded. "Let's try again."

Rocket's only reply was a long-suffering sigh.

Gamora couldn't help but wonder why Mantis kept up the tireless training with so little results. The assassin hoped dearly that this was a skill Rocket wouldn't ever have to use. If _she_ had any say in it, that voracious presence was never getting anywhere near her furry friend again! But Peter had told her that Mantis was not just a mind-reader. He'd told her that the woman also had premonitions, visions of the future. Was the telepath simply being cautious, or was she preparing Rocket to face another psychic invasion because she knew it was coming?

What if that thing got inside Rocket's head again?

What if she wasn't there the stop it this time?

 _Dwelling on 'what ifs' again_ , Gamora thought in exasperation. _This team will be the death of me..._

Still, she wouldn't trade them for anything in the world.

"Hey, G'mora!" he grinned at her. "Great timing, I could use a break!"

As casually as she could, Gamora tucked the items she'd been carrying behind her back and took a step into the room. As with the rest of the telepath's house, nature ran rampant here. Vines, creepers, moss and, most especially, flowers of all kinds all but obscured the walls and ceiling. Mantis nodded to Gamora and left without a word. The green assassin caught herself guarding her thoughts as she neared her small, ring-tailed friend. It was strange how quickly she'd become accustomed to Rocket being able to hear her think.

"Yer thinkin' something dirty, am I right?" Rocket asked slyly and Gamora started.

"How would you even know something like that?" she asked, finding herself slightly irritated that he seemed to know what she was thinking despite the fact that there was no way for him to know what she was thinking.

With a smirk, he tapped the side of his nose.

"You bald-bodies give off all kinds of scents, 'specially when it comes to emotions 'n stuff," he clarified, an insufferably cheeky expression on his face. "It's kinda gross, really... I mean, when you 'n Quill start doin' that _thing_ – whaddayacallit, flirting? – ya gotta think of us guys with the sensitive noses before ya start stinkin' up the joint with yer—"

"Don't pretend you know nothing of flirting, Rocket, I've seen you do your fair share," she interrupted with a scowl. "Your point is...?"

"My point is, ya got used to doin' that trick of distractin' me by thinkin' embarrassing glark when you didn't want me reading yer thoughts. My _point_ is, yer hiding somethin'," he concluded smugly.

"I'm not hiding anything," she lied instinctively, but couldn't help wondering if he would smell the lie.

"Then what's that ya got behind yer back?" Rocket insisted, crossing his arms triumphantly.

 _Damn..._ she thought. _Nothing so elaborate after all._

"All right," Gamora sighed, sitting down beside the rude little raccoon, "you're right, I did not want to tell you this, but... I may have a lead on who could be after you."

He stared at her incredulously. Any trace of teasing was now gone, replaced by barely contained hostility.

" _Really_? And yer keepin' this from me _why_?" Rocket demanded, eyes condemning, his tail lashing violently.

"I was trying to protect you—"

"By _hidin'_ stuff from me? So we're back to keepin' secrets, now?" he fumed, pinning her with those dark, glittering pupils of his. "Yer gonna wait 'til these people are breathin' down my frickin' neck before yer ready to tell me, 'Oh, sorry, Rocket, we knew 'bout this all along, but we didn't wanna tell ya 'cause yer a dumb animal and we're, y'know, _real_ people, so it's totally our decision to make!', like I'm yer flarkin' _pet_!" Gamora opened her mouth to protest – where had this come from all of a sudden? – but he simply steamrolled right over her. "First the honey samples, now _this_! Next yer gonna tell me it's fer my _own good_! 'cause, y'know, that's what friends do, ain't it? Keep each other in the dark!?"

She tried again: "Rocket, will you just lis—"

"So ya can _lie_ to me some more?" he spat viciously.

There was no reasoning with him when he was like this.

"Fine, then," Gamora replied wearily, tossing the restraint and crushed invisibility bracelet on the stone floor in front of him, "see for yourself..."

This finally cut off the tirade where nothing she'd tried to say had made any difference. Rocket went completely still. She saw a slight shudder course through the small, furry body as he seemed to stare straight through the items at his feet. Instantly, Gamora wished she could have the dreadful objects back. She knew the raccoon could be infuriatingly obnoxious at times, but she also knew that this type of behaviour was his self-defence mechanism against feeling helpless, against getting hurt.

And now, having lost her temper with him, she'd gone and done just that.

"This is from those gaboons that attacked us," he observed tonelessly, turning the bracelet Mantis had smashed with her heel over in his deft little claws, "the invisible ones..." Gamora bit her lip as his tiny raccoon fingers followed the curve of the bracelet all the way to the miniscule indentation of a symbol engraved into the metal and froze. "Th-This logo..."

She didn't need to see it to know what it said. It was also engraved upon her memory from hours of endless searching that first time Rocket had been taken from them.

 _Brandt Industries._

The dull clang of metal ringing on stone filled the room as the bracelet slipped from the raccoon's trembling hands. Ears drawn down, eyes staring blankly, Rocket sat quietly as tremor after tremor shook his small frame. His hands had come up to his throat to check for a collar that was not there.

 _Fool, I should have just_ told _him_ , Gamora cursed herself in silence.

"Rocket—"

"'m fine," he assured her, rising stiffly to his feet. "Don't worry 'bout me, 'm fine, I... gotta go find Groot..."

With a heart that felt like it was filled with lead, Gamora watched him stagger off.

"Rocket, I'm sorry..." she finished, but by the time she finally got the words out, he was long gone.

* * *

Drax was using one of his knives to clean dirt from under his fingernails. He'd been helping the green telepath, Mantis, to replant some of her potted flowers – a surprisingly soothing activity – and he had gotten his hands dirty. He smiled to himself. He understood that "getting one's hands dirty" was some form of metaphor and, though he was unsure of this one's meaning, he was building up quite a stock of these strange sayings with the hidden meanings to ponder in a quiet moment.

His peaceful musings were cut short by a certain small mammal stumbling aimlessly into the room, looking more than a little lost.

"You look like you do not know where you are going," Drax remarked and, to his surprise, Rocket jumped. "Are you all right?"

"Can't find Groot anywhere..." the disgruntled raccoon muttered by way of explanation.

"I believe he went out," Drax supplied. He'd seen the tree man go, but thought nothing of it. He'd become accustomed to their friendly giant shambling off without a word. "He did not mention his plans to you?"

"Blasted idiot... wandering off just when I..." deep breath, "just when I..." another deep breath, "when I—" Rocket seemed to realize he was speaking aloud and gave himself a shake.

Drax could see that the small one was working very hard to rebuild his brave face. He made a valiant effort, but his usual tough-guy facade kept slipping. It was a bit like watching a child attempt to pitch a tent on a windy day; just as soon as he had one peg in place, another side went flapping out of control.

The tattooed man understood the raccoon's need to maintain the illusion of fearlessness, but he was also aware that, behind that illusion, a scared, vulnerable little creature hid. It had been the same for _him_ ever since the loss of his family. He'd learned the hard way that appearing brave and feeling brave were two separate things and that no amount of pretending could make the pain – or fear, perhaps, in the small one's case – cease to exist. There was something profoundly sad about the way Rocket felt the need to pretend in front of the only people in the world he'd decided to trust, possibly excepting the tree man.

"The _hell_ you starin' at?" the bristling raccoon hissed bitterly.

Wordlessly, Drax patted the open space on the wooden bench beside him – a signal that was meant to beckon the other to sit. He watched Rocket process his gesture warily.

With stubborn slowness, the proud raccoon approached the bench and scrambled up onto it. After a couple of beats, the obstinate little creature scooted a half-space closer, giving his unspoken permission for the tattooed warrior to pet him.

Drax paused for a moment before placing his hand on Rocket's head. He then began tracing warrior designs all over the fur-covered skull. The grim Destroyer had grown much more during his time with the Guardians than his crew suspected. Even the _pretence_ of giving the small mammal victory and honour markings was a crime against all Drax had been taught. But after all the team had been through together, Drax had concluded that, in his own way, Rocket, too, was a warrior – a tiny warrior with invisible battle scars that were too many to count.

So, in spite of his literal nature, Drax broke the rules a little, for his new family. He didn't think anyone knew how much deliberation he'd gone through before finally deciding that it was the right thing to do, but in the end, he'd decided that it was a simple issue of acceptance.

Besides, tracing the imaginary patterns seemed to help his small friend relax, sometimes under the most dire of circumstances.

"Tell me what troubles you."

"My frickin' head's hurting again," Rocket replied, rubbing his eyes. He froze suddenly, tail standing on end, then turned to face Drax with large, fearful eyes. "What if I start hearin' thoughts again— What if that thing's back in my head!?"

The Destroyer smiled in understanding and lightly moved his great hands to the pressure points in the raccoon's shoulder muscles – they were taut with stress.

"You need to relax," Drax said as he carefully pinched the tense muscles under his fingertips, mindful not to hurt the small one by using too much force. "There is no one inside there except you. This tightness in your muscles," he said as the raccoon's tension practically melted away at his gentle touch, "is what is causing you pain."

"Aww, man," Rocket half-purred, half-snorted, closing his eyes. He looked like he was about to fall asleep. "Ya really should consider quittin' the Destroyin' gig and becomin' a massage therapist or sumsuch. That – is – so – _good_...!"

Drax shook his head. He did not understand half the things the loud-mouthed little creature said, but the two of them had grown from being unable to stand one another to having a sort of mutual respect between them. Seeing that Rocket was going through a difficult time, reliving the bad experiences from his previous abduction, Drax was all too happy to help his small friend cope.

"Oh," Rocket piped up, eyes popping open, "plus I think G'mora's pissed at me fer mouthin' off on her..."

"You two did _what_?" Drax gawked, unable to suppress the peculiar picture the small one's words summoned up in his mind.

"I _mean_ I made her mad," Rocket groaned, dragging a palm across his face in what Drax had come to know as an exaggerated display of annoyance. "Sheesh! We need to install ya with a colloquial translator or somethin'..."

"No need," the Destroyer replied with a smile. "I am... catching on."

"Huh!" the raccoon grunted, seeming rather impressed. "That ya are... O-Ohhh, a little lower! Thaaaaat's it..."

Rocket leaned back into Drax's massaging fingers and the Destroyer was surprised to hear the sound of contented nasal purring rumbling from his small friend – he rarely let his guard down like this. In fact, the only times Rocket ever made that sound was when he was fast asleep or ridiculously drunk. Not wanting to spoil the moment with unnecessary chatter, Drax instead concentrated on loosening the knots in the furred one's muscles.

* * *

When Quill finally sidled up to him and asked him when the last time he'd spoken to the kid was, Rocket was ticked off all over again. Just the fact that Gamora had no trouble talking to Quill about _that time_ – he suppressed a shudder – but wouldn't even bring it up with Rocket, was galling. Last time he'd checked, it was more _his_ business than Quill's just who these krutacks who wanted him were!

Of course, the little voice of reason in his head told him that Star-Lord _was_ the leader of their band of misfits and they all probably needed to discuss their next move, seeing as they couldn't keep squatting at Mantis' house forever. Eyeing the lush garden that was her sitting room, Rocket was inclined to agree – he didn't think his sinuses would survive a longer stay anyhow.

Groot going missing was obviously a concern. They decided that it would be best to reach the Milano first, then use the ship to scour the area for him from a vantage point relatively safe from the overwhelming number of bounty hunters all over town. How hard could it be to spot a walking tree, after all?

Mantis even provided them with directions to a fairly disused path they could follow to make it to the ship unnoticed.

A small part of Rocket continued to worry. Groot had always had a way of doing his own thing and returning hours later with a goofy grin and a handful of ill-gotten goodies. What was strange, though, was Groot taking off _knowing_ there was so much danger lurking about. The big lug probably figured Rocket had enough protectors with Gamora, Drax, Quill _and_ Mantis around, but still, it felt wrong to leave without him...

They said their goodbyes, Mantis assuring Quill that she had no desire to join the Guardians of the Galaxy, even though he'd never asked her to. The green-skinned telepath knelt in front of Rocket and gave him a hug. Rocket found that a bit awkward, but the others simply smiled. And then, they were off.

It was quite a surprise, then, when the team found Groot already loitering near where the Milano was docked.

"The flark have ya been, bark-for-brains?" Rocket grumped, scurrying up to his usual perch on the tree man's shoulder, but instead of his usual reply of 'I am Groot', the wooden face turned to regard the raccoon silently. "Sheesh, what's eatin' _you_?"

"I..."

The unsuspecting raccoon had about half a second to contemplate the unfinished sentence before Groot reached up and plucked Rocket from his shoulder, holding him in a tightly clenched fist.

"Groot, wh—" The rest of his sentence was swallowed by a sharp intake of breath as Groot's mouth grinned at him much too widely below a pair of hungry, red eyes. "Groot!?"

"I am Groot!" the great tree thundered and the shocked raccoon's ears flew back.

"W-What's gotten into you?" Rocket faltered, heart slamming against his ribcage. "N-No, c'mon, buddy... Groot, this ain't you...! Ya gotta beat this thing, Groot!"

"Now, Groot," Quill reasoned solemnly, hands raised palms up in a show of surrender, "whatever Rocket did to make you angry, I'm sure we can talk about this if you just put him down... All right, big guy?"

Groot's already impossibly wide grin stretched wider still, until it seemed it would split his face.

"H-He ain't himself, Quill!" Rocket warned, fruitlessly trying to pry loose the fingers digging relentlessly into his torso.

"Let him go, right now!" Gamora commanded icily, reaching for her weapon.

The possessed tree man snorted and continued to look down at the rest of the Guardians wearing that macabre grin.

"Do as she says," Drax declared menacingly. "Let the small one go, or, even though it pains me to do so, I shall be forced to dismember you."

Groot's response was to aim a devastating kick at the Destroyer.

Drax sidestepped and, with a bloodthirsty battle cry, attacked the wooden giant with his twin knives. Rocket cringed as splinters flew. Groot's retaliation was to simply scoop up the tattooed warrior and fling him through the air, where he disappeared over the far rooftops. An agonized groan creaked from deep within the tree man's throat as several shots from Quill's blasters set his bark on fire.

"Wait, _stop_! Don't hurt him!" Rocket cried, then winced as the wooden fingers tightened their grip around him. There had to be a way to talk some sense into Groot. "Snap out of it, Groot! Groot, please— _urgh_!"

The tree man's fingers crushed all the air from his body. Wide-eyed and gaping, Rocket stared at the raging tree man as he tried desperately to get a snatch of oxygen to refill his lungs. Groot looked at him, then, and he thought he saw a glimmer of his best friend's dark, soulful eyes – alive with pain, confusion and guilt-ridden sadness – before they once again became distant, the angry red glow reigniting in their depths.

Quill tried to reach Rocket using his boot jets, but Groot's mighty hand merely swatted the puny human aside with a sickening _crack_. Quill hit the ground and rolled like a rag doll.

Gamora swung her sword to chop off the arm holding the raccoon, but Groot reached out with his free hand and, as he did so, one of his fingers extended into a vicious spike. Rocket watched in horror as the spear-sized thorn pierced Gamora's abdomen. Groot shook her off and she landed on one knee. Before she doubled over, Rocket could see blood pooling in her mouth and spilling down her chin. He tried to call her name as she lay there, face-down in the dirt, but there was no breath left in him. He willed her to get up. She was the most dangerous woman in the galaxy, for flark's sake, there was no way anything could take _her_ down!

 _Right?_

But she wasn't getting up. She wasn't even moving.

 _C'mon, Gamora...! Quill! Anyone?_ He fought Groot's painfully harsh grip, but it seemed the more he struggled, the harder the tree giant squeezed. _Please, Groot, don't do this!_

Unable to breathe, the raccoon finally passed out in the wooden man's huge hand. The thick, bark fingers gradually eased their unforgiving hold on the hapless little creature. Vines and branches grew from Groot's hand and encased his unconscious victim in a wooden cocoon.

And Rocket was carried off.

* * *

 **Author's Note :** **I want to thank every single reader for taking the time to read my story so far!**

 **I feel it's only fair to warn you that, as of the next chapter, I will up the rating from** _ **Teen**_ **to** _ **Mature**_ **. I won't do anything drastic – the story will carry on in the same style it has been going (although I feel like I've been pushing the boundaries as it is)** **– I simply need more freedom to take the story where it needs to go without breaking the rules of the site. :D**


	9. All Fall Down

**Author's Note:** **Just a warning - I have taken a few liberties now that the rating has been raised to M... in other words, I reserve the right to do awful things! (Sorry, Rocky...)**

 **On that ominous note, please enjoy!**

* * *

 _I've got you now!_ she thought gleefully. She could feel the warm little body squirming in her giant wooden fist. She could feel his little heart pounding rapidly against her rough wooden fingers, which only made her want to hold him tighter. She grinned broadly. She felt so powerful. The might of this stolen body was intoxicating. _Wriggle all you want, little one, you're not getting away this time._

 _I made sure of that..._

Licking her borrowed body's unnatural wooden mouth ridge in fascination, she gazed one last time through the tree monster's eyes at the too pretty green woman she'd impaled. Vibrant red lifeblood soaked the ground and mixed with the rust-coloured sand of the deserted street where she'd discarded her fallen rival. Retribution most sweet, the girl thought, considering the green woman had thrust that dreadful sword of hers straight through her, not once, but _twice_ now. _Serves you right for trying to steal my prize!_

 _Speaking of which..._

She turned the ungainly wooden head to stare at her cute little raccoon where he was kicking and struggling weakly in her monstrous grip. Until her recent trip into the puny thing's subconscious, she'd never been aware of her ability to hear surface thoughts – it seemed the more she practiced her awesome talent, the more new abilities she discovered – and now she was hungry for more. She had to peek. Her eager grin broadened as some of his distressed thoughts trickled into her consciousness.

But then there was a jolt as the tree body rebelled against her control in response to the little one's silent pleas.

 _I AM GROOT!_

 _Go away!_ she hissed internally. _I'm busy!_

 _Groot, please... don't do this...!_ her cute little raccoon's desperate cries interfered just as she was about to crush the tree monster's awareness.

 _I AM GROOT!_ the shout came again, stronger this time, as the wooden creature rallied to the small one's aid and she thought she was losing control of the limb holding her prize.

But she'd learned a thing or two about manipulating painful memories while wandering her little raccoon's psyche. She rummaged through the wooden thing's memories and found one she could use. Then she added more fire – she made it a hotter, hungrier forest fire to burn and char and kill. The resulting fear was enough to subdue the tree monster and the interruption faded as soon as she had this 'Groot' safely locked away once more.

When she finally turned her attention back to her sweet little raccoon, her heart leapt into her throat; he'd stopped moving, eyes shut, his head lolling to the side. She'd squeezed him too hard!

 _Please-please-please don't be dead!_ she lamented. Why did all her animals have to die this way!?

Carefully, she loosened her grip on the frail, furry body. Her heightened tree senses told her that he'd started breathing again and was, thankfully, still alive.

 _Stupid tree!_ she fumed. _Miserable thing almost cost me my new pet... I just might set you on fire for real!_

Instead of closing a fist around her little pet, this time she wrapped him in a dense cocoon of branches and carried him off, grinning in anticipation.

It was not long now...

* * *

It was dark and musty, like wet foliage. _Where am I?_

His swollen sinuses told him that he was lying on a bed of leaves inside a Groot cocoon, covered in his big tree friend's sleeping dust. _Don't tell me I had another episode..._ He remembered waking up in a situation like this once, only to hear from the other Guardians that he'd had a panic attack and Groot put him to sleep to calm him down.

But after having had to deal with some awful hay fever symptoms as a consequence, he'd made Groot promise not to use the powder on him again. It must have been a severe panic attack, if things had been so dire that Groot had seen cause to break his promise – the big lug took promises far more seriously than most people.

A flash of branch-like fingers squeezing the life out of him brought Rocket to his senses.

He was trapped inside a branch cocoon, being carried off to who knew where. The enemy must have Groot under some sort of spell, much like what happened to Rocket the time he had almost left the Milano in a lifeboat under no control of his own. The others had been able to stop him that time...

 _The others..._

Rocket blinked harshly at the memory of Gamora's blood spraying through the air as a log-thick thorn ripped itself free of her abdomen. She crumpled to the ground and Groot's face smiled a hideous, enraptured smile that did not belong there.

Rocket stared at nothing for a long moment before he sat up, ignoring his trembling limbs and the protesting muscles in his bruised torso. He stretched his arms to either side and, without straining, his fingers brushed a rough, woven wall of bark. There was barely enough room for him to stand up in.

His eyes were starting to adjust to the darkness. And that was when he first noticed the vines.

He jerked his fingers away. They lined the inside of the cocoon, were part of it, but they began creeping closer, making the space inside the already cramped cocoon smaller and smaller. Rocket was appalled to realize that they were reaching for him. He backed away only to find more vines grasping at him from behind. There was nowhere to go as the greedy vegetation kept closing in on the frantic raccoon. He swiped at them, managing to sever some of the tendrils with his sharp claws. But the encroaching vines just kept coming and soon they were winding all around Rocket's arms and legs. He twisted in their grasp, but as soon as he moved, the vines constricted almost violently in response. He froze.

"Groot, wh-what're ya doing?" he croaked, surprised at the hoarseness of his own voice.

Deep, rumbling laughter filled the confines of the cocoon and a voice whispered inside his head: _I am not Groot..._

He'd never been so eager to be wrong in his life, but this confirmed his suspicion. Somehow that _thing_ had gotten inside his big tree buddy's head and was controlling him. No, this definitely _wasn't_ Groot. Rocket _knew_ this, but he had to try.

"C'mon, I know ya don't wanna do this, Groot—" he began, but cut off sharply as the aggressive plants surrounding him squeezed mercilessly.

 _I AM NOT GROOT!_ the voice in his head boomed. _Be still now, little one..._

Rocket flinched as some of the slender stems holding him branched off towards his face, tickling his nose. He held his breath as the tips of the vines curled over his head, reaching for that sweet spot behind his ear.

 _S-Stop it! That's not fair!_

He tried very hard not to react as the claspers began scratching tenderly, like real fingers, but he could feel his control slipping as two more creepers began doing the same behind his other ear. He suddenly realized that he'd forgotten to close his mouth as a trail of saliva escaped his lips along with the hint of an embarrassed little purr.

 _Let me go, I don't want this...!_

He let out a surprised grunt when the tendrils began exploring the rest of his body, starting with the sensitive pads on his toes and fingers, trailing up his arms, up his legs, coiling tightly. Soon, he started sweating as the questing vines tried to burrow beneath his jumpsuit. In a matter of seconds they were all over his implants, groping the scar tissue, clinging to the metal parts, prying, as though trying to crawl inside them, or maybe rip them out.

"What the hell—!?" Rocket gasped, writhing in his attempts to break away. "No! G-Get off me...!"

But he was trapped. No amount of thrashing could free him from the creepers and their senseless probing. Rocket couldn't help feeling a stab of betrayal at Groot violating his personal space like this, _knowing_ that he hated being touched. Groot was not in control, of course, that was painfully obvious, but it was still Groot's body doing this to him. Revulsion coursed through him as a vine pushed itself into one of the ports on his back. It felt just like those tools the gloved fingers always used when they were _recalibrating_ him.

A nightmarish flashback lurked at the corners of his awareness.

"N-No..." he whimpered.

— _tear you apart._

Another creeper slid down his spine to tug experimentally at his tail. _Gloved hands holding him fast._ He tried to fight it, but the overpoweringly vivid memory grew stronger by the minute.

— _put you back together again._

Trembling fitfully in the entanglement of vines, Rocket was vaguely aware that he had begun hyperventilating. He could almost _see_ the gloved hands and the bright lights and the white tiles. _A squirt of pale fluid spraying from the tip of a syringe as they prepared to inject him with_ —

"Hey!" a muffled voice sounded from outside the dense cage of branches, cutting through the horrible memories that were threatening to overwhelm Rocket. "Yeah, _you_ , useless chunk of walking firewood! You just keep standing there with that dumb grin on your face, but how do we even know you brought the goods?"

The vines retracted, dropping the raccoon in a shivering bundle in the centre of the cocoon. He didn't have the will to push himself up onto his elbows, not even when some of the branches parted to create a window in his wooden prison. Instead, Rocket curled himself into a ball, made himself as small as he could.

He just lay there in a shuddering heap as a pair of bounty hunters peered in at him. They were talking about him, he knew, but he simply couldn't muster the concentration to follow the exchange.

He wanted to swear at them, spit at them, anything, but instead, he screwed his eyes shut tight and wished for the other Guardians of the Galaxy to come get him.

If they were even still alive, a sad little voice inside his head added grimly...

* * *

The girl, Myra, sat in her room with an empty half-grin still twitching on her face. She instantly hated the two bounty hunters for interrupting her, but it was probably for the best. It would be so much more enjoyable to get to know her cute little raccoon in person than through the senses of another.

Those metal parts were very interesting. They felt... wrong, somehow, but she couldn't stop thinking about them.

For a full minute, she just sat there, hugging herself and licking her lips.

 _Not long now_ , she promised herself. All she had to do was keep the tree monster from interfering and the bounty hunters would bring her prize to her.

 _And then..._ Her pupils dilated. _And then no more interruptions._

* * *

A warm light in the distance caught Groot's attention. It drew him like a beacon as his dark eyes latched onto it. Everything else was pitch black around him. Was he dreaming?

"Groot..."

Groot heard the voice as if from far away, but somehow he knew that the voice was inside his mind. It reminded him of crystal bells chiming and lilies bending their necks as they swayed gracefully in the wind. It was a comforting feeling, though he was not sure exactly why he felt he needed consoling.

"Groot, it is time to save your friend..." the voice told him. Though still inside his head, it sounded closer this time.

Save his friend? For a moment, the tree man was confused. He'd left Rocket with the rest of the Guardians. He'd gone off alone so he could fight the thing that was trying to take over his mind without hurting anyone.

Or... why had he done that?

Why had he left to face the presence on his own when Mantis could simply have removed the thing as she had done for Rocket...? Groot couldn't imagine why he hadn't thought of that... All he knew was that he'd been afraid, and that he'd left Rocket with the others.

Rocket was safely away from him. Or was he...?

Whenever he tried to think of his tiny raccoon friend, Groot's mind was engulfed in too-real memories of fire that made him recoil instinctively.

 _I am Groot?_ he called out uncertainly, startled to find that he did not have a voice.

"Yes, you are," the gentle voice replied kindly and it was like sunlight seeping through the darkest clouds of the longest winter. "Be brave, Groot..." The darkness was beginning to fade as the voice spoke. "Now... _wake up_!"

Suddenly, Groot found himself in the most distressing of circumstances.

* * *

"Oi, Meedo, do you think it's sick?" the gronad outside the cage asked.

Rocket Raccoon was playing dead. His senses were razor sharp and his brain was working overtime, but he kept his eyes closed and held himself limp. He didn't trust the involuntary twitching of his ears, so he kept them pinned flat against his skull. Just in case, he had his treacherous tail tucked under him, too.

The plan was to worry the bounty hunters into opening the cage to check if their precious cargo still lived, and then... well, from there, he'd have to improvise. He'd probably have to kill them so he could take over their ship. It was either that or hope to steal a lifeboat undetected.

The most important part was, he was getting the flark out of here.

"Nah, it probably just needs a new battery or something," the other bounty hunter commented, footsteps coming closer as he joined his partner in inspecting their prisoner.

 _D'ast moron..._ Rocket thought, indignation flaring in his gut. _He thinks I'm a krutacking toy!_

"I dunno, Meedo, it looks sick to me," the first bounty hunter persisted. "D'you think maybe that tree thing hurt it?"

 _Worse than hurt..._ Rocket couldn't help thinking morosely, feeling only the slightest twinge of guilt at the thought. He was very proud of himself for not shuddering at the memory.

"Leave it alone, Cass," the one called Meedo rebuffed, footsteps already withdrawing. He was clearly not interested. "Quit being so fussy. We can pick up some quarnyx batteries on our next stop." Rocket barely managed to quell the affronted growl trying to rise in his throat. "Dunno why anyone would wanna pay so much for such a mangy little thing."

"Huh! Well, I think it's kind of cute. And don't call me that, you know I hate it..." the other replied testily. "Use my full name or shut your cake hole!"

"Ooh, tough guy! You know, I always thought..." the rest of the conversation faded out of earshot as the bounty hunters left he cargo hold.

Rocket silently counted to one hundred before allowing himself to open his eyes. Being surrounded by wrist-thick bars only centimetres apart didn't help calm his nerves any. It was not a small cage – these bounty hunters clearly used it for captives of all shapes and sizes – but that did not make the sensation any less unpleasant. Trying to ignore the waves of panic threatening to pull him under, he rolled over to get a better look at his surroundings. The more he knew about his captors' ship, the better his chances were of escaping.

He very nearly had a heart attack at seeing a pair of dark, glittering eyes blinking at him sorrowfully from the other side of the bars.

"G-Groot...!?" he gasped, lurching backwards, away from the tree man.

"I am Groot," his big tree buddy rumbled quietly, holding a finger to his wooden lips.

The stunned raccoon could scarcely believe his eyes. For a minute, he was speechless. A myriad things went through his head, none of which would come out right if he gave voice to them.

"I... am Groot?" the tree man asked softly.

"Y-Ya really don't remember?" Rocket hedged in a strained whisper.

For a long moment, the two friends stood staring at one another; Groot frozen in disbelief, Rocket frozen in mistrust.

"N-Nevermind, then – doesn't matter," Rocket spoke finally, giving himself a mental shake. It was time to blow this joint, Rocket-and-Groot style. "Can ya get me outta here?"

Groot smiled that joyful smile of his and grasped the bars of the cage. It was made of some seriously strong stuff, though, for Groot's arms creaked, but the bars would not budge. This was taking too long.

"Nah, forget it, look over there on the wall," Rocket instructed quietly, "that panel should have the controls fer the cage."

He couldn't help feeling just a little relieved as the lumbering giant turned away from him in search of the panel. How could he explain his uneasiness to Groot, though? What he went through inside that cocoon...

"Hey, what do you think you're doing!?" a shout sounded from the entrance to the cargo hold. Rocket's blood ran cold when he spotted one of the bounty hunters standing in the door; an older man with greying hair, an eye patch covering his left eye. "Cassidy, get your ass in here!"

"What's up, Meedo?" the other bounty hunter, Cassidy, called back from the hallway.

"Move it!" Meedo, the one with the eye patch, barked.

But Groot was already growing in size until his broad shoulders touched the ceiling and his hulking fists were bigger than a man's head. Despite the colossal opponent standing between him and his prize, the older bounty hunter appeared unimpressed.

Groot moved to attack him when the man stepped back and a see-through barrier slid down between him and the angry tree giant. The walking tree slammed his fist into the barrier that blocked his way, but it didn't leave so much as a scuff mark. The man with the eye patch had the gall to smirk at Groot tauntingly.

"Groot, open the—" Rocket cut off, startled, when another barrier went up, this one around his cage.

"Do you think I've survived this long in my line of work by trusting a complete stranger, especially one who just happens to deliver the biggest payday to date on my doorstep?" the bounty hunter called Meedo snorted derisively. "Did you actually believe we were gonna let you stay so you can get a cut of the reward? Are you _really_ that naive?"

"We were ready for you the minute you dropped that bounty into the cage," the other one, Cassidy, sneered. He was holding something – a remote? – in his hands. "Now, we're all for protecting the environment and all that rubbish, but I'm pretty sure the universe isn't gonna miss one retarded tree..."

"Quit yapping, Cass," the older bounty hunter reprimanded with a grimace, "just do it."

"With pleasure," the other replied, grinning sadistically as he pressed a button on the remote.

With a sense of dread, Rocket watched the grating above Groot slide open. A cloud of green gas poured into the cargo hold. Gripping the bars of the cage, the raccoon strained to see what was happening on the other side of the barrier between him and the tree man, but the gas had formed an opaque mist, making it impossible to see more than a silhouette. He could hear the dull thumps of Groot pounding on the barrier.

"I-I—am... G-Groot...!" the feint cough came from inside the sea of green gas, making the raccoon gasp.

" _No_!" Rocket yelled, his grip on the bars growing white-knuckled. " _Stop_! Turn it off, _please_ turn it off!"

He couldn't see the bounty hunters on the far side of the room, but he could hear their laughter.

"Groot! No! _Groot, no_!" he cried, his voice catching, his vision blurred with tears. His fingers were cramping as they clutched the bars of his prison. "Turn it _off_ , ya krutackin' _bastards_! _Please_! Yer _killing_ him! Stop it!"

The thuds of Groot's pounding had stopped. Rocket could hear nothing but the sound of his own blood rushing filling his ears.

"All right, all right," one of the bounty hunters chuckled at last, "we can toss what's left of him out the airlock..."

As the green mist receded, Rocket could make out the shape of Groot's hands and face pressed against the barrier as if trying to catch one last glimpse of his raccoon friend. The eyes were devoid of life, two gaping holes staring straight through him. Some of the fingers splayed out against the barrier were already crumbling. Rocket would have screamed in horror, but his voice was gone, rendered useless by the helpless sob caught in his throat. He dropped to his knees, his muscles turned to water. The barriers pulled back. There was nothing to support what was left of Groot. With a broken heart, Rocket watched his kind-hearted friend disintegrate into a pile of dust, just a hand's breadth away from his cage.

The bounty hunters continued their mindless banter as if nothing had happened. They found it infinitely amusing that their little prisoner could speak, poked and prodded him to see if they could get him to talk again, but none of this registered in the distraught raccoon's mind.

He retreated as far into the corner as the cage allowed and he grieved for his best friend.

Rocket had never felt so alone.


	10. Between Me and My Freedom

**Author's Note:** **I _love_ getting reviews ****– Rocket inspires me, but you guys keep me going! – keep 'em coming, please! :D  
**

* * *

Rocket Raccoon jerked awake, eyes blinking, ears swivelling, at the sound of the ship's engines shifting from the constant hum of deep space travel to the fluctuating stutter of negotiating gravity. He didn't remember falling asleep. His swollen eyes hurt too much to rub them and he had a raw, scratchy feeling in the back of his throat.

A little hiccup jolted through him and he hissed in pain as the sudden movement upset the bruised muscles along his ribs. He was stiff and sore from sitting curled up in the same position – possibly for hours on end; he had no way of telling – and staying still for so long hadn't done his no doubt black-and-blue torso any favours.

For a moment he was lost in a haze, unsure of why he had such a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. And then reality impacted once more.

 _They killed him... They killed Groot..._

He felt sick just thinking about it. There wasn't even so much as a splinter left to replant, Rocket realized. His ears drooped at remembering how the bounty hunters had nonchalantly chucked the heap of dust that used to be his best friend out the airlock. The exhausted raccoon thought he had cried until he could cry no more, but suddenly fresh, hot tears stung his eyes anew.

"Up and at 'em, pipsqueak!" one of the bounty hunters – the obnoxious one named Cassidy – called cheerfully. "We're here!"

Rocket was planning on ignoring the flarkin' gaboon, but then his ears perked up as the bounty hunter strolled on over to the panel with the controls for the cage. A small detail sparked the raccoon's interest: the man didn't have the remote for the barriers on him... Rocket had not moved since crawling into the far corner of his prison and this seemed to have made the fool careless.

"C'mon, little fella, you're off to your nice new home and I'm off to make my fortune!" the brainless oaf blathered on, not even looking over his shoulder as he opened the cage.

In three clumsy bounds – Rocket winced with every motion as bruised muscles grown cold protested all throughout his torso – the clever little raccoon was out of the cage and under a heap of haphazardly stacked crates before the bounty hunter had time to turn around. Holding his breath, he waited for the goon's reaction when he noticed the empty cage.

"Aww, krag-nuggets!" he heard Cassidy swear under his breath. Right on cue. "Meedo's gonna kill me!"

Rocket felt his lips curve into a savage smirk. He'd read the situation right. The other one, the older mercenary with the eye patch, was the brains of the operation... but this guy? He was obviously the inexperienced apprentice entrusted with very little responsibility, a frustrated novice eager to prove himself. He wouldn't want the elder to know about his mistake: seriously, this was _Bounty Hunting 101_ stuff - you accidentally lose your captive, you flunk big time. So, in an attempt to cover his blunder, the man was about to make his second big mistake – he was going to try and fix this without calling for backup first.

"Pssst! Hey, where are you, little guy?" he heard the bounty hunter call out nervously, his voice carefully muted.

In his hiding place, the raccoon rolled his eyes. _Murder my best friend and then expect me to come quietly? Like hell!_

He listened for the man's footsteps. So far, the bounty hunter hadn't moved other than shuffling those big ape feet of his restlessly. If the goon came any closer, Rocket had a choice of making a run for it or jumping him, though his chances of physically overpowering an opponent at the moment were disparagingly low. He would have loved to have a gun. If he tried to swipe the guy's sidearm... He shook his head. If he could manage to slip past this guy undetected, running was his best bet.

Rocket tensed his aching muscles in anticipation – he could not afford to trip or falter even once.

A rustling of clothes could be heard as the bounty hunter, Cassidy, frantically searched his pockets, most likely for...

"Damn it, the keypad...!" he cursed.

Rocket couldn't believe his luck. His grin broadened as the moron's thudding footfalls receded at a jog. He took a deep breath and hoisted himself up onto the crates he'd been using for cover. It took him three tries before he could reach the top – something was definitely bruised or worse in there, he thought as he instinctively clutched his ribs at the dull pain spreading through his chest.

 _Ain't no time to feel sorry for yourself!_ he scolded himself harshly as his nimble little fingers investigated the grating above his head.

This grate was the very same one from which the poisonous cloud that had killed Groot had come and Rocket cringed at the thought, but that also meant there had to be a ventilation shaft of some sort behind it. If he was quick, he could disable the trigger at the source. And if he wasn't and they decided to gas him, well, then at least it wouldn't be long until he saw his big tree buddy again.

If a thing like him and talking trees even went to the same place after they died...

A hollow ache that had nothing to do with his ribs thrummed through his small body. Rocket hadn't realized just how much Drax's way of thinking had rubbed off on him.

 _Focus, idiot!_ Shaking his head, he concentrated on the task at hand.

He was getting dizzy, working with his arms raised above his head like this, but with a bit of fervent fiddling, he managed to loosen part of the grate. He found himself looking up a narrow shaft that led into darkness. The ship was bound to have all sorts of traps, designed to keep captured bounties contained and, although his diminutive form counted in his favour for once, he would still have to tread carefully.

Again, Rocket had trouble pulling himself up by his arms. He struggled until he thought his muscles would tear apart. He finally made it up into the vent, just barely clambering over the ledge and then collapsing unceremoniously onto his stomach. It was a monumental effort just to turn himself around and pull the grate shut noiselessly behind him. Worn out, the raccoon allowed himself half a minute of breathless panting before pushing up on his elbows and crawling deeper into the shaft, hoping he was at least heading for the cockpit.

If he could make it to a transmitter, he could try calling the frequency of Quill's helmet or, with enough time, maybe even rig the ship to broadcast its location to the Milano.

The space was tight, with little room for manoeuvring. His ears grazed the ceiling of the cramped tunnel and he was slithering along on his belly. His breath came in short gasps and his lungs felt too small, like they'd been bound with iron bands that kept them from expanding all the way. He thought he saw a flash of pure white tiles from the corner of his eye.

Rocket shuddered involuntarily. He could _not_ afford to lose it, not now. _Think of something else_ , he told himself firmly. _First, bring Groot's murderers to justice._ _After that, after you kill 'em all, after you get away,_ then _you can let the stupid, crazy animal out..._

He kept it up like a mantra, berating himself every time he was blinded by search lights that weren't there, thinking of avenging Groot every time red-smeared tiles started appearing where they didn't belong. So focused was Rocket on staying sane that he was startled when the close walls suddenly let up around him. He was crouching in a compartment built into the ventilation shaft for housing a sizable pump, attached to a generator and several tanks.

He'd discovered the source of the gas.

Wary not to trigger any traps, Rocket approached the contraption as quickly as he dared. He had no time to lose; he could already hear angry voices echoing from somewhere in the ship. Dismantling the anti-tampering device was easy enough once he located it. He spared a thought for Groot as he ruthlessly ripped off a panel and hurriedly began deactivating the receivers and the pump.

That done, Rocket was about to turn away to continue down the ventilation shaft, when his eyes fell on a lever, half-heartedly screwed on instead of bolted into place. With a grim smile, he detached the length of metal effortlessly and hefted it in his paws, testing the weight. He had a blunt weapon, now, at least.

He realized that his time was up when an ominous hissing noise filled the shaft. It wasn't coming from the tank he'd just sabotaged. _Flark it, they must have another one!_ Indeed, where the poison the bounty hunters had used on Groot had been green and opaque, the stuff billowing down the shaft towards him now was the barest shade of white, practically invisible. He took a deep breath while the air around him was still clean, then held it.

 _Not much time... Think, Rocket!_

Ears flicking irritably, he considered his options. Either they didn't know where he was and were hoping to flush him out of hiding, or they knew exactly where he was and were focusing the gas on his position. They wouldn't want to accidentally gas themselves, so whichever the case might be, the one who would be waiting to catch him as soon as he caved, that one would be carrying oxygen with him... Gripping the heavy pipe in his little paws, he took a moment to prepare himself before continuing his crawl down the tunnel at a decidedly more urgent pace than before.

It wasn't long before he started to make out the hint of light. He crept towards it. Peering through the grate at the end of the shaft, Rocket looked down on one of the bounty hunters – the dim-witted one, Cassidy – waiting in the cockpit. The man hadn't spotted him yet; he was searching under the seats and behind the consoles for the missing raccoon. But the moment Rocket dared to touch the grate, the bounty hunter was going to notice.

Rocket couldn't afford to stay where he was, though. His air supply was growing thin. He wouldn't be able to hold his breath for much longer. He looked from the grate barring his way to the metal rod in his paws. There was no time for precision and no margin for error.

 _Now or never, Rocket..._

Striking quickly, he dislodged the grate using the heavy pipe. Cassidy had just enough time for a surprised yelp before Rocket cracked the blunt weapon across his face with all the force he could muster. He reached down to remove the man's gas mask—

 _What the flark!?_

He wasn't wearing one! Vision blurring and throat seizing, the frantic raccoon searched the dazed bounty hunter for some form of oxygen tank, but found nothing. Apparently he wasn't even trusted with a _blaster_ , never mind a vital thing like breathing... How was the gas not affecting him!? The whole cockpit was misty with the barely visible gas.

Rocket wasn't beat yet – he was two short bounds away from the ship's communication console. Abandoning his search for a breath of air, he lunged for the comms unit instead. He took an involuntary little gasp as a meaty hand grabbed him by the tail. Immediately, his head spun. He tried desperately not to breathe in any more of the potent gas as he was hoisted into the air by his spine.

"Why you cheeky little rat!" Cassidy chuckled in astonishment, holding the raccoon upside down. "Tell me you didn't just hit me over the head with a _lever_."

In vain, Rocket swung the pipe at his captor, but his reach just wasn't long enough. He could hear his own heart throbbing and tears were forming in his eyes, but he stubbornly held on to the spent air inside his lungs.

"Ah, you finally found our golden rodent," the other bounty hunter remarked, stepping into the cockpit, looking quite smug. Rocket's eyes widened at seeing the tiny cage tucked under the man's arm.

"Man, this gas smells bad! Hey, it's a good thing we bought those immunity tablets, eh, Meedo?" Cassidy chatted amiably. "I didn't think they'd work, to be honest...! I thought we were all gonna take a nap together."

"Yeah," the bounty hunter with the eye patch agreed, effortlessly pulling the pipe from Rocket's grasp. "Too bad we can't buy tablets that'll make _you_ smarter, 'Assidy', you almost cost us our cargo!"

"Not fair, man!" Cassidy objected loudly. "Use my full name or shut your cake hole!"

Without even really looking at his distressed little prisoner, Meedo proceeded to casually poke the raccoon's stomach with the metal rod, trying to get him to breathe in the gas.

"Whoa, Cassidy, is that a _bruise_?" he laughed, ignoring his junior's complaints. "At least your thick skull is good for _something_." He turned a condescending smile on Rocket. "Come on, little guy, breathe. It's not healthy to keep it in so long."

Knowing full well that it was useless, Rocket was still determined not to cooperate. He held his breath valiantly for all of five prods, but then the nudges became sharp jabs and they travelled from his stomach to his sensitive torso. It was only when the pipe struck a particular rib on his left that Rocket gasped in pain, letting the sleeping gas flood his system.

His last thought as his vision faded to black was that that rib was probably broken...

* * *

Myra sat in the car, licking her lips and staring at the black tinted windows shutting away the outside world. Daddy hadn't wanted her to come, but they were bringing home her cute little raccoon today! She _had_ to be there! So she'd promised to stay in the car. Daddy wasn't very happy about her leaving the house, but at least he'd allowed it in the end.

The noise of the car door opening sent a thrill of expectation through her. Daddy stuck his head in and then passed the cage to her. Myra stared. He looked so small! In awe, she placed the cage across her lap and continued to gaze at the cute little raccoon inside it. His eyes were closed and his mouth hung open, his little pink tongue peeking out ever so slightly and the row of perfect little white teeth lining the gums of his bottom jaw showing.

She tried to push her fingers through the narrow gaps between the bars so she could touch his fur, but there wasn't enough space. She frowned.

"Daddy, I want to take him out," she declared, grinning eagerly.

"Not in the car, angel," Daddy, who was back in the driver's seat by now, replied without looking.

"He's asleep! Why is he sleeping, Daddy? I want him to wake up now!" she complained.

"The men who brought him said he tried to escape," Daddy warned, "that's why they had to put him to sleep."

"He keeps _doing_ that..." she muttered.

"What was that, darling?" asked Daddy, keeping his eyes on the road.

"Nothing..." Myra lied. Suddenly, a sly smile spread on her face. "But he's sleeping... so I can take him out, then."

"Not in the car, Myra," Daddy said seriously. "Pets shouldn't be loose in the car. They can get hurt. Are you wearing your seatbelt, cupcake?" Myra felt a bubble of panic rise up from her middle. That's right, pets could die if there was a car accident... Her fingers curled protectively around the edges of the cage. But then Daddy darted a brief, reassuring smile at her. "He will be safe inside the cage, sweetheart. Besides, once we get home you can play with him all you want. I'm sure he will wake up soon."

"Yes, Daddy..." she replied, smiling down at her cute little raccoon. She contented herself with running a fingertip over the smooth, warm surface of his adorable little nose.

He stirred, then, just a slight frown and a soft groan, but it was enough to make her heart swell.

"I love you," she whispered at him fiercely, hugging the cage to her chest. "I _love_ you!"

She couldn't wait to get home...

* * *

Unfamiliar scents.

That was the first thing he became aware of. He smelled something sweet, mixed with dust, musty stone, rotting wood... and moisture. The air was thick with moisture.

And then he opened his eyes.

Rocket sucked in a sharp breath as he was greeted by a vision filled with bars. He was inside a cage not much bigger than he was. The small cage was made of metal, just like the ones they used to put him in when they... _When they_ — Memories of a lifetime ago, of gloved fingers and sharp instruments rose up unbidden and assaulted him. His heart wrenched itself up into his throat and a chill spread throughout his body. He curled in on himself, hoping that, if he made himself small enough, he wouldn't be next. For a long moment, he lay there, shivering, before he managed to fight down the ghosts of the past.

When he could finally see past the bars of his tiny prison, he noted that his cage had been left on a table in the middle of a spacious but old-fashioned sitting room. The heavy curtains were drawn closed. Candles glowed softly in the fancy chandeliers above, bathing the room in pale, yellow light. He found the slight gloom preferable to the glaring ultraviolet lights of laboratories and hospitals.

First things first – he inspected the cage for weaknesses. He ran his fingers all along the edges and down each of the bars. He growled in frustration. _Can't even find the d'ast door!_

Sighing, Rocket sat down gingerly in the corner of the cage and set to examining his aching ribs, trying to locate the broken one. It didn't take long before he found it, and two more, that were either very badly bruised or broken.

His stomach rumbled and he wondered what time of day it was. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd had something to eat. He caught himself wishing he had some of that leftover pizza he'd stashed under his bed back in the Milano... _Stop thinking about food and start working on a frickin' escape plan!_ he thought angrily.

He was sort of hoping he'd been forgotten when a furtive figure appeared in the doorway, peering this way and that before scurrying closer. An old woman with creased, leathery skin stopped close to the cage and stared at him, unblinking. The laugh lines around her eyes were the only evidence that she could smile, though there was no trace of friendliness in her face now.

When she said nothing, Rocket bared his teeth at her.

"Whaddaya want?" he growled.

Her eyes widened slightly. She probably hadn't expected him to be able to talk. Belatedly, he thought he should have tried to get her on his side; she was wearing a servant's uniform, and servants' loyalty varied depending on the benevolence of their employers.

"I-I've seen..." she started in a thin, reedy voice, "what happens to animals in this house." She swallowed, then reached down and fumbled for something in the pocket of her apron. "I-I'm sorry, but I can't watch anymore... Those poor, poor animals."

Rocket's heart soared. Here was an ally that could help him escape. His eyes eagerly followed her hands as they found what she was looking for in her apron – the key that opened the cage, he hoped. To his dismay, she pulled out a syringe instead.

"W-Wait—Wh-what is that?" he stammered, backing away from the old lady as far as the cage allowed.

"I'm so, so sorry, little one," the woman apologized over and over as she brought up the syringe. It was filled with bright green liquid. "I-It's better this way. You don't know what she does to animals. It-It really is better this way."

"N-No!" Rocket choked out. "Get that away from me!"

She pulled the cage across the table to her and looked at him sadly.

"You'll feel a slight sting and your suffering will be over," the serving woman continued as though she couldn't hear him. "I've _seen._ " She wet her lips and raised her white eyebrows for emphasis. They quivered disturbingly. "I've _seen_ what she does to animals – it's much better if you just go to sleep..."

"N-No!" Rocket screamed, unable to take his eyes off the deadly injection in her wrinkled hand. "Are you crazy!? Someone, help! _Help!_ "

"Shhh, quiet!" the old woman said sternly. "She'll come. She'll find you and then—" Suddenly, her eyes went big and round in terror. "Oh no... She's _here_..."

"Nan, what are you doing?" a girl asked from the shadows in the doorway.

The servant lady turned to the doorway, sure to keep the syringe out of sight, a good-natured smile on her face.

"Nothing, Myra, dear," she lied smoothly. "I was just checking on your new pet."

Rocket could feel the tension in the air. He remained frozen, pressed up against the back of the cage, as far away from the crazy old woman as he could.

"I have a new talent, Nan," the girl announced cheerfully from the doorway.

"Oh? And what is your new talent, girl?" the elderly woman, Nan, asked in reply.

"I can tell when you're lying to me..." The sweet, girly voice took on a rough edge.

"That's not new, Myra, dear," Nan answered easily, tucking the syringe behind her back without breaking eye contact.

"No," the girl, Myra, said evenly as she stepped out of the shadows. Rocket was surprised to see that she was a rather pretty, dark-haired girl with pale skin. Her eyes were an unusual shade of brown and she looked a little older than she sounded, somehow. "But _this_ is..."

"M-Myra, dear," Nan's voice faltered as she pulled out the syringe she'd been hiding behind her back and held it up for the girl to see, "wh-what are you doing?"

As far as Rocket could see, the girl wasn't doing anything, simply standing in the doorway, staring intently at the old woman in front of her. _Were_ her eyes just a strange hue of brown, or were they really _red_? The raccoon's hair wanted to stand on end.

"Tell me what that is, Nan," Myra said darkly. "You were going to use it on my new pet, weren't you?"

Nan nodded and looked surprised that she had done so.

"I-It's a mercy injection," the woman murmured, then clapped a hand over her mouth and shook her head. Her shoulders began to quake. Was it Rocket's imagination, or was she sobbing quietly into her fist.

Myra's eyes flashed red; this time, there was no mistaking it.

"You mean old woman!" she screeched. "How dare you!" She looked past Nan at the caged raccoon. "Did she hurt you?"

Uncertain what to make of the whole situation, Rocket just shook his head mutely.

"But she was _going_ to," the girl concluded. "I'll never trust you again, Nan. But I know just what to do with you..."

"N-No!" the old woman cried even as she took the needle in both hands. "M-Myra, please! _Please_!"

Staring at the syringe in her own trembling hands, the woman screamed. Her voice cracked, but she continued to scream. She screamed and screamed until, finally, she thrust the needle into her own neck, fingers spasming until every last drop was injected into her bloodstream. Rocket jumped as the old woman turned suddenly and crashed into the table. For a horrible moment, their eyes met. A single tear slid down her cheek before she began coughing up thick globs of white foam. She reached her hand out to him, like she wanted him to help her somehow. And then she was no longer looking at him, but straight through him.

"Don't worry, little Rocket, you're safe now..."

When he managed to tear his eyes away from the dead woman at last, Rocket saw that the girl, Myra, was smiling at him.

A wide, unnatural smile.


	11. Mine All Mine

**Author's Note:** **This one took longer to write than expected... I'd like to thank you for all of your reviews, for each and every message of encouragement, and thank you all for waiting so patiently!**

* * *

"The bald truth of the matter is, you certainly seem to have immense trouble holding on to your vulgar little pet, good sir," Brandt remarked dryly, using far too many words, as was his habit.

Peter Jason Quill, also known as Star-Lord, who had hoped that he would never have to see the billionaire again in his life, was sorely tempted to punch a hole in the man's snooty, pale pink face. Repeatedly. Unfortunately, he'd merely end up punching several holes in the screen of his ship's comms unit.

"You better not have anything to do with this, Brandt!" he threatened, levelling an accusing finger at the screen.

Brandt's eyebrows climbed theatrically.

"Oh dear, there seems to have been a profound misunderstanding, good sir," he sneered, the ugly expression on his face at odds with the crisp, polite tone of his voice, "I have absolutely no interest at all in having that rude little creature anywhere _near_ my luxurious home again. You will, of course, recall that his last catastrophic visit resulted in devastating destruction and, not to mention, turmoil for all parties involved, even the unfortunate terrorists."

"Like he had any say in it..." Peter muttered under his breath.

"What makes you think that _I_ had anything to do with the ill-advised abduction of your uncouth little rodent in the first place, good sir?" Brandt asked loftily.

"For starters, you could be holding a grudge," was Peter's baleful reply.

Brandt simply widened his eyes innocently at this statement, but Peter hadn't really expected that theory to hold water.

"And then there's _this_!" he shouted triumphantly, shoving the broken invisibility bracelet at the screen. "Ha! Solid evidence that your corporation was involved, baby! Look there, it even says 'Brandt Industries' on the engraving!"

"I'm sorry, Mr Star-Lord, but all we're getting is a blurry image of your hand," a young boy's voice piped up. "Why don't you send over the schematics and I'll be able to tell you who we sold that specific prototype to?"

"Timmy? That you, kid?" Peter blinked, withdrawing his hand to peer at the screen. He scratched at the back of his neck irritably, then shrugged and sent the information. "I swear you were smaller the last time I saw you."

The boy in the wheelchair, Timmy, beamed at him from the other side of the screen and sat up a little straighter.

"I'm almost as tall as Father now— ah, here come the schematics for..." he frowned as he read, "'invisi-drape' technology...? I've never heard of that..."

"Now _that_ is one particular design I never sold to anyone," Brandt asserted from off-camera. "Extremely expensive to produce, not lucrative in the least, _and_ the product would have been too deviously dangerous in the hands of spiteful enemies."

Peter opened his mouth to share some choice words with Brandt about spitefulness.

"Where did you say you found the technology, Mr Star-Lord?" prompted the boy, Timmy.

"On bounty hunters," Peter spat resentfully. "Bounty hunters hell-bent on capturing Rocket."

Timmy looked perplexed as he scanned his dad's company records. Peter wouldn't have thought that Brandt would let a twelve year old rifle through sensitive business documents, but apparently the man had begun grooming his son to take over the company someday. Well, Peter supposed a near-death experience could change any man's perspective, even a stuck-up billionaire.

"There are no transactions mentioning these specifications at all... on the books, I mean," Timmy concluded, "which means, the tech must have been—"

"Stolen!" Brandt finished for his son. "What a devious crime! Good sir, I desperately implore you; when you find that dirty little ferret of yours, please track down the immoral cowards who stole my top secret inventions from me, too!"

There was an awkward pause from the boy, Timmy, and Peter had the distinct feeling that he wanted to say more.

"Uh... Sure, but—"

"Then I'm afraid we're completely done here, good sir. Good day!" Brandt interrupted and, with a curt hand gesture, ended the call.

"Oh, you unbelievable bastard," Peter seethed, then grimaced at noting his own excessive adjective, "I'm not done with you—"

But just as he was reaching for the button to call the slime ball back, a private text message popped up on screen:

 _Father is hiding something. Will get to the bottom of this. - T._

Peter sighed and let his hand drop. At least _one_ of the Brandts had Rocket's well-being in mind. Normally, Peter wouldn't leave something as important as his tiny best friend's safety in the hands of a boy, but Rocket himself regarded the kid's skills with some respect. That was saying a _lot_ – the raccoon was not easily impressed. In fact, Rocket usually stared down his nose at any kind of genius, no matter how qualified. And when he wasn't tall enough to do so, which was _all the time_ , the little guy went out of his way to get up onto a box so he could stare down his nose at said genius, Peter thought with some amusement.

He realized his thoughts were wandering.

He bit his lip. He didn't dare wonder how his friend was doing. If they locked Rocket in a cage, he might well go berserk. The panic attacks took away his ability to reason, with nothing but the wild instincts of his origin to guide him.

Peter tried very hard not to think about how badly the little guy could hurt himself once he turned feral, but already his mind was conjuring up the vivid memory of a blood-covered bundle of fur, hissing and shivering by turns; Peter had once caught a terrified Rocket trying to claw out his own cybernetics during one of his earlier episodes. It hadn't been pretty...

Staring out the front window at the great black void of space, speckled with stars and planets for as far as the eye could see, Peter couldn't even begin to guess where one went looking for one little lost raccoon.

A grief-riddled cry pierced his contemplative silence, making him jump. He met Mantis halfway down the ladder from the Milano's cockpit. For all her vehemence that she would not join his team of Guardians, the serene, green-skinned woman had insisted she come along to help them find Rocket. In all honesty, Peter was happy to have her aboard – they needed all the help they could get.

"Gamora?" he asked earnestly.

"She's just awakened," Mantis nodded, the antennae peeking through her dark hair bobbing slightly. "Drax is with her. I filled her in on the situation. She is upset..."

"All of us are," Peter remarked, casually rolling his shoulders. Casually, but carefully. They'd had to reset his dislocated shoulder and the movement still caused a dull ache to spring up in the joint. Being swatted aside by Groot's mighty fist in mid-air was very much like getting hit by a flying bus. "Did you tell her about the plan?"

Again, Mantis nodded her head, antennae bouncing.

"She wants to go as soon as we're ready," she stated, her expression carefully neutral.

"Wai-wai-wait," Peter protested, "I thought you were gonna send _me_. Mantis, c'mon, she's hurt and—"

"—has a disciplined mind. Her chances of success are far greater," Mantis interjected. She didn't raise her voice – she rarely ever did – but the dark-eyed telepath had a sense of gravity about her that made you want to listen when she spoke. "I agreed to send you if she did not regain consciousness soon, but she has a very strong connection to him. You _know_ this, Peter Quill."

Peter couldn't help feeling a stab of jealousy at her words.

He wasn't being petty – this had nothing to do with his feelings for Gamora. Back when Rocket was taken from the hospital by the Skrull, when the raccoon had been on the verge of that panic attack, he'd come to Peter. When that scared little voice called out to him from the shadowy passage outside the nurse's office, _he'd_ been the one to calm his small friend's fears... Peter _understood_ that their secretive assassin shared a deep friendship with the smart-mouthed raccoon and he _knew_ it was silly to want to be the one Mantis sent to telepathically contact Rocket, but he felt _responsible_ , damn it! For each and every member of this crew!

And still that wasn't the real reason behind his sudden bout of envy either.

Peter screwed his eyes shut and massaged his forehead. _The truth is..._

"I miss the crazy little furball..." he admitted with a reluctant sigh.

"I understand," Mantis replied, placing a consoling hand on his shoulder, and he knew that she really did. Somehow, without even officially joining the Guardians of the Galaxy, she'd placed herself in charge of the team's mental welfare. "We'll get him back, Peter."

"We have to..." Peter murmured softly as he turned away to go check on Gamora.

* * *

Rocket steadied himself against the bars of his cage, his whole world swaying as he was carried down a long passage lined with windows, all closed off by heavy curtains. He couldn't tell why he had the feeling that he knew this place. He'd never been here before in his life, of that he was sure.

"You shouldn't believe anything crazy old Nan tells you, you know," the girl holding the cage remarked conversationally, then brightened suddenly. "Ooh, she'll probably be back from shopping soon. I told her to get you something nice to eat. You must be hungry."

Rocket's ear flicked before he could stop it. At first, he'd figured that, even though she seemed to know his name, he should pretend to be nothing but a dumb animal. Hopefully, she would underestimate him. The minute she let her guard down, he'd make a run for it. But when she blurted out this bizarre statement, he very nearly called her out on her madness.

Crazy old Nan wasn't coming back from shopping.

Ever.

Crazy old Nan was _dead_.

Upon further consideration, Rocket realized that it probably wouldn't even help to pretend. For all he knew, this girl _expected_ him to be able to talk! She seemed to be, as Quill would put it, 'as crazy as a bag of cats'...

As they entered her bedroom, the raccoon felt his hackles begin to rise; the scenery was uncannily familiar. Though the room was illuminated with candles and the curtains drawn closed, he instantly recognized this as the gloomy room inside the ancient-looking castle, the room from that nightmare he'd had over and over and over before finally waking up in hospital. All his hair tried to stand on end as he risked a glance in the direction he'd seen the collage of photographs. Sure enough, hundreds of copies of his picture covered the wall on that side of the room.

The most prominent change was the addition of an elaborate, golden cage, hanging from a chain in the ceiling. Unable to tear his eyes away from the hideous monstrosity, Rocket felt a nasty chill travel up his spine… That thing was meant for _him_.

 _What the hell have I gotten into this time?_ he wondered grimly.

The girl placed Rocket's tiny cage on her enormous four-poster bed, then promptly lay down on her stomach, her elbows resting on the bed, propping up her chin. Unblinkingly, she stared at him.

Now that he got a closer look, the raccoon could see that one of her eyes was reddish brown in colour. The other had a bright red lens instead of an iris. Rocket could not shake a strange, nagging feeling at seeing the girl's bionic left eye. Somehow it made him feel like he was missing something, a clue just beyond his reach. He vaguely recalled a menacing shadow lurking in the mirror of a sterile, dimly lit bathroom.

And then it was as if his prodding jarred something loose.

His vision blurred and garbled images of a horrific car crash flashed before his eyes. His mind reeled from memories that weren't his; sensations of white hot pain, violent nausea, of mutilated arms and a left eye on fire.

He blinked.

The cage door stood open. When had she opened the d'ast thing? He hadn't even seen her move! Shakily, he picked himself up off the bottom of the cage. He didn't remember falling down. He _was_ feeling terribly light-headed. Had he fainted?

"Come on out, little one," she coaxed.

For an absurd moment, Rocket felt safer _inside_ the cage.

"Come on, cutie, out you go!" she cooed and suddenly the world tipped sideways as she upended the cage over the bed.

The startled raccoon bounced as he hit the quilt-covered mattress. He had a full second to recover before she made a grab for him. Giving her his best vicious snarl, he swiped at her approaching hand with his claws, but she had cat-like reflexes and withdrew her hand without him landing a single scratch.

"Keep yer hands to yerself!" he warned, a growl rising in the back of his throat.

"Oh, don't be like that," she pouted. "I just want to hold you a bit."

Eyes darting, Rocket assessed the situation. The great bedroom door was shut, its doorknob too high for him to reach. With the curtains closed, it was impossible to know if any of the windows stood open – the thick drapes never stirred. If that nightmare he'd had was any indication, though, he wasn't even on the ground floor and leaping out a window without any sort of plan to get down would be suicide.

One option remained.

"Nah, I'm good," he declined, dashing off the bed and zipping under the cover of its heavy wooden frame. "I ain't much of a hugger, anyway!"

 _Hiding under a bed like some dumb animal..._ he scoffed silently, grimacing in disgust. It was a tight squeeze, but that only meant that she would have more trouble getting him out from under there. His head spun from the minor exertion. A sick, hollow feeling was slowly spreading from his middle to all his limbs and he felt off-balance, almost like he was floating.

"Come here, little Rocket!" she called as she peered under the bed. It was too low for her whole face, but he could make out both eyes. The one with the red lens flashed in the darkness, a sinister, flickering light. "I just want us to be friends!"

" _Friends_ , huh?" the wily raccoon remarked acidly, edging away from that end of the bed. "Ya don't go around takin' people prisoner against their will so they can be yer friend, toots!"

"Prisoner?" she repeated incredulously, pulling back her head so she could shove her hand under the bed, groping after him blindly. "Daddy _paid_ for you, so it's more like a vacation!"

"Like hell it—"

As Rocket moved to back further away from the grasping fingers, he jolted when his claws suddenly closed on a handful of fur, long and plush. Despite the gloom beneath the bed, his sharp eyesight allowed him to easily make out the prone shape of a cat. Its eyes were large, with dilated pupils, and its lips were peeled back in the rictus of a permanent snarl. Staring at the motionless creature beside him, Rocket felt the rest of his sentence turn to dust on his tongue.

The animal was dead.

His heart shot up into his throat as the four-poster bed was wrenched into the air by no force his eyes could see. Looking up, he saw that the bed was floating weightlessly above his head. Ears drawn down, Rocket spun to face the girl towering over him. For a moment, her eyes lit on the carcass of the white, long-haired cat lying next to the cornered raccoon. In the regular light it was immediately apparent that the filmy white veil of death covered its eyes.

"Ah, you found Mr Cuddles," the girl noted, a slight frown creasing her brow. "The sneaky kitty always liked taking long naps, but when he disappeared I never thought to look under the bed..." For a moment, she looked sad. Then her eyes took on an empty expression. "All right, I forgive you, Mr Cuddles. I won't mind if you don't love me anymore." She promptly dismissed the cat, her hungry gaze locked on Rocket. "I have a new pet now..."

Rocket, who had been tensing to dodge as soon as she took a step closer, was taken by surprise when her hands snapped forward like twin serpents, shooting toward him the same way a chameleon's tongue caught its prey, her arms elongating unnaturally. In a heartbeat, her hands were all over him.

"Put me down, I ain't yer frickin' pet!" he growled angrily, kicking and clawing as she reeled him in on her slowly retracting arms. Her smile broadened as she kept staring at him, licking her lips and dragging him ever closer. "Lemme go! Lemme _go_ — _ohhh_!"

A jagged jolt of pain shot up from his torso as her fingers accidentally dug into the wrong rib.

"Hold still, little one," she chided, clicking her tongue in annoyance. "If you don't stop squirming, you'll hurt yourself!"

"I-If ya think I'm gonna come q-quietly, ya got another thing comin', princess!" he ground out, jamming his sharp claws deep into the flesh of her hands, puncturing the pale skin.

"Oh!" she cried, dropping him.

A second later, the bed crashed down onto the floor, back to its original position. It narrowly missed flattening the fleeing raccoon.

 _Screw this!_ he thought, heart pounding as he raced for one of the windows, not really caring which floor he was on at this point.

He was jerked to a halt when she grasped him by the leg, her slender fingers curling in a deadening grip around his ankle. He anchored his nails in the carpet and held on for dear life. He knew he wouldn't be able to keep it up, however. Already, the aching muscles in his chest were screaming in protest. His claws left deep furrows in the mat as she pulled relentlessly. Finally, she reached down and tore him free of the carpet, causing another spasm of pain to ripple throughout his ribcage.

Rocket tried to wriggle through her fingers, to slip away, but, quick as thought, her freakishly long arms wrapped around him, pinning his arms against his sides in a monstrous bear hug. All the breath left his lungs as he was crushed against her chest. She settled a hand on his head and stroked his fur vigorously.

"There, there," she sing-songed happily, "just a little hug..."

"L-Let go—" he managed to gasp. The rest of his sentence disintegrated as she tightened her grip on him. Pain flared in his torso and Rocket could feel his already damaged ribs creaking under the strain. She was squeezing him too hard with those augmented arms of hers! Eyes watering, the trapped raccoon fought to take a whole breath. "C-Can't—"

A horrible _crunch!_ -sound grated from inside his chest, accompanied by a stab of raw pain. Was that _another_ rib?

 _That's it_ , he thought in grim surprise, _I'm gonna die... right here, like this, squeezed to death by a psychotic cyborg child._

His only regret was that he would never get to see his family again. As his vision grew dark, he wondered how long it would take for them all to be together again, with him and Groot dead... Part of Rocket wanted to laugh at this ridiculous reasoning, but _breathing_ was barely possible; laughing was out of the question.

Seriously, though, anywhere was fine, as long as he didn't end up back in hell. A terrible thought occurred to him: What if he had to start over? After he died, what if they sent him back _there_? Put him back together again? He realized with a start that he very much did _not_ want to die.

He managed a desperate little squeak that the girl with the arms finally noticed.

"Oh, no, was I holding you too tight?" she blinked, loosening her suffocating grip. "I'm sorry...!"

He took a grateful breath, or began to – the agony in his ribs nearly stopped him short. He tried breathing cautiously; it didn't hurt as much if he only took small half-sips of air.

"Just look at you!" she cooed, taking him by the scruff and holding him up for inspection. "So skinny! I'll bet your coat would be really soft and glossy if you ate properly. We'll definitely have to give you something that will fatten you up nicely..."

She ran the fingers of her free hand all along the curve of his belly. _Don't!_ He struggled to pull away, but that didn't seem to bother her. _Don't you frickin' touch me...!_ He still didn't have the strength to talk. He wanted to claw at her, but he could scarcely lift his arms. Woozily, he noted that her hands had already stopped bleeding. A glint of metal shone through where the skin parted around a particularly deep scratch.

He had no time to consider this, for she planted a harsh kiss on his nose and ruffled his hair. Rocket shuddered in revulsion. If only he had been ready for her – he could have tried biting her face off!

"I'll be right back," she was promising, carrying him in the direction of the golden trap in the middle of her room. "I have something that will get you nice and plump in no time at all."

And then the door to the glittering cage was swinging outward. It stood open like the gaping, golden jaws of a hungry, skeletal beast. Eyes wide, Rocket stared at the thing with growing apprehension.

"I'm not going in there…!" he tried to say, but he was still too out of breath to speak. He might even have pleaded, had she but given him the chance. Right then, all he could manage was a growl that sounded more pitiful than threatening.

"Quit struggling!" she reprimanded him sternly. "I have to go fetch you something to eat, so get in your cage!"

"F-Forget it!" he hissed when he finally had his voice back, latching on to the outside of the cage.

Somewhere, most likely from his adrenaline reserves, he found the strength to hold on despite her pulling. When she reached up to uncurl his fingers from around the bars, he snapped at her hand. His razor sharp teeth gave her pause; he bared them at her in a vicious grin.

But his victory was short-lived. A lance of pain shot through him as she jammed a finger into the wrong rib again. This time, she'd done it on purpose. Senses awash with pain, Rocket was aware of his fingers slipping. The world did an unexpected almost-cartwheel and he hit the bottom of the cage with a grunt. Ears ringing, he barely heard the door slam shut and the lock rattle.

He must have zoned out for a bit, because she was talking, but he was too busy cradling his abused ribs to register much of anything that was happening beyond the veil of pain. The cage was still swinging back and forth on its chain in the aftermath of their struggle. The slight rocking motion made him feel ill. Gritting his teeth in a brave snarl, he glared defiance at her as she kept right on talking. He lay there watching her with unblinking hostility until she finally left the room, locking the door loudly behind her.

When she was gone, the raccoon practically deflated; the angry expression he'd been so proud of melted into a pained grimace, his rigid posture slouched to the cage floor and his ears drooped limply.

"Ohhhhh..." he whined softly as the breath he'd been holding left him in a rush. Breathing back in again was an overwhelming chore, the air hissing painfully past his teeth on its way in. It felt like those super robot arms of hers were still wrapped around his torso, crushing him. "F-Frickin', frickin' ribs..."

Rocket stayed that way for a long moment, simply forcing himself to breathe full, proper lungfuls. Each wheezing breath was accompanied by a sharp twinge in his chest.

And then his eyes lit on the giant padlock securing the cage door. Ignoring his body's protests, he lurched to his feet and grabbed the thing in both hands. It was so huge, he could easily slip his nimble little fingers into the keyhole. Right then, he didn't have the energy to grin, but he could do this...

Pulling a lock pick from that secret little side pocket in his jumpsuit, Rocket Raccoon went to work.


	12. The Cat and the Mouse

**Author's Note:** **Happy 2016! It's officially the last few hours before my holiday ends (how depressing, right?), so I thought I'd post what I've been working on during my vacation. I hope you like it!  
**

* * *

Septimus Gerhardus Brandt had never been an easy person to get along with. If he liked you, he tried to please you with false promises. If he disliked you, he tried to please you with false compliments. And, like you or not, he never seemed to be able to stop talking.

"You _promised_ me, Johan, you gave me your irrefutable _word_ that you would—"

But Johan Hensley had had enough of this posturing people-pleaser.

"Then we both know a little something of broken promises, don't we, Septimus?" he interrupted hotly. "Now, you listen to me and you listen well…"

For a moment, it seemed like Brandt was still winding up to say more, but Hensley fixed him with a stern frown.

"That's better," Hensley continued. The other man looked like he'd swallowed a sour plum, but at least he seemed to be listening for a change. "I've told you _explicitly_ never to call me here. _If_ we have need of you, _I_ will contact _you_. Not the other way around. And certainly not because you suddenly feel some kind of righteous itch! Giving me that invisi-drape technology was the very least you could do. You owe me a lot _more_!"

Brandt winced, because he knew it was true.

"Johan… I gave you my advanced technology so that you could protect yourself and your… delicate investment, not so you could _sell_ it! A-And to sleazy mercenaries, no less…!" Brandt spluttered when his lip finally stopped quivering. Had the man begun cultivating a backbone while Hensley wasn't looking? "Johan, _think_ about what you have done! Anyone could use it against us!"

"I've had enough of this," Hensley cut him off. "What's done is done. You can let me know if anything changes drastically, but use the regular channels."

Brandt opened his mouth to protest, his cheeks pinker than ever.

"Septimus," Hensley forestalled him curtly, raising a threatening eyebrow, "do _not_ call me again."

"Of course, Johan, I only wish we could—"

"Goodbye, Septimus."

With that, Hensley ended the conversation.

Merely looking at the businessman's oily, pink face made him sick. Not only did he despise the man, but seeing his face brought too many memories out of hiding. The bastard had taken everything from him. Just what his dear sister had ever seen in that disgusting man was beyond him. How he wished they'd never met… Maybe then she would still be alive. Hensley ground his teeth in frustration. If he never had to see that inconvenient business partner of his again, he thought, his life would be perfect.

A loud thud that sounded suspiciously like the four-poster bed crashing to the ground came from his daughter's bedroom. His hand went automatically to the pendant he wore under his shirt, against his skin.

 _Well… almost perfect_ , he thought with a sigh. _Oh well…_ At least the girl was content for the moment. She always did perform her duties better when she was happy.

* * *

The padlock clicked open. Rocket winced as the heavy thing slipped from his fingers and fell to the cage floor with an impressive clatter. _Nice work! Why don't you just go ahead and call out, tell her what yer planning, genius!?_ he berated himself. Gritting his teeth, Rocket reached up to open the gilded door, arms trembling with the effort. Then his heart skipped a beat. He flinched away from the cage door as if burned.

Through the opening, he saw a sterile, white-tiled room.

He blinked harshly and the girl's gloomy bedroom returned, but just when Rocket thought he'd completely dispelled the illusion, it came back. It came in fits and starts, but it kept coming. It flickered in and out the way lightning illuminates a dark scene every few seconds. He saw the bedroom in the ancient-looking castle, but then flashes of a room lined with rows upon rows of undersized hospital beds, fitted with lengths of chain, intruded on it. He saw the stylized bricks of the bedroom wall and the tall, drape-covered windows, but then sleek, white tiles marred only by plugs and hoses took their place.

From nightmare to reality and back again his vision took him, alternating every other second. The shivering raccoon squeezed his eyes shut. But then he began hearing the sound of the hygienic bio-pump starting up, the heart monitor bleeping erratically in the background, the whimpering and begging. He could even taste the cloying, minty stuff they rubbed into his gums whenever they—

 _No, no-no-no!_ Rocket thought, pulling down on his ears and shaking his head vigorously. _Shut up! Go away go away go away!_

Upon opening his eyes, he was appalled to find that his golden prison hung suspended over a sea of blood. He could make out shapes submerged in the crimson liquid; bones. Some of them, he could make out, were whole skeletons, the outlines of beasts that were according to no design nature would ever come up with.

 _I'm sorry I couldn't save you_ , he thought at them, _I didn't mean to leave you all behind._ He blinked. That thought had come from out of nowhere. Who had he left behind? He'd always been one of a kind. He'd always been alone and he'd gotten out of there on his own. How had he escaped again? Suddenly he couldn't remember. _I…_ did _escape… didn't I?_

In a lucid moment, he realized that this was just his mind playing tricks on him. Where he saw an ocean of red, there was, in reality, a carpet, a four-poster bed and a dead cat—

The blood below churned violently, sloshing this way and that. Two furry, white arms, drenched and stained red, reached up and grabbed on to Rocket. The claws dug into his skin, pulling him down into that frothing, red pool.

"No!" he gasped just as he was wrenched down out of the cage and brought face-to-face with the eyeless gaze of the girl's dead cat.

Drowning! He was drowning in blood! It filled his nose and mouth.

Blink.

He gasped, coughed and spluttered. Coughing hurt, breathing hurt. His chest felt too tight, like there was still some leftover blood clogging his lungs. Panting in short, strained little gasps, Rocket found himself curled into a ball, lying on a mattress.

 _Where…?_ he thought, looking around with bleary eyes.

He couldn't make out any details. Everything looked fuzzy. He felt like he was peering at the world through a long tube.

Then the hands attacked him. Gloved hands grabbed him from all sides. Crowds of hands, so many that he could see nothing but the hands. They smelled of latex and chemicals and pain. Some of the hands grabbed on to his ears, some held his legs, his ankles, his belly, his throat. Some were pushing him down onto the bed. Those that didn't have anywhere to hold on to were just reaching mindlessly, fingertips writhing as though impatient for their turn. When he opened his mouth to cry out, there was a pair of hands ready to clamp his jaws together.

His whole body jerked at the sound of clinking chains. Powerless, he watched the gloved hands move. They wove the cold chain all around him with practiced motions, securing the struggling little subject to the tiny hospital bed. Head swimming, eyes bulging, Rocket could feel the panic pulsing through him. If his jaws weren't locked together in the gloved grip, his teeth would have chattered.

Because he knew what happened next.

Blink.

"You have been a very naughty little raccoon," a girly voice cooed in his ear.

Rocket's head shot up. The hundreds of clamouring hands were gone and he was no longer fastened to a hospital bed. He was back in her room, inside the golden cage. She was there, winding an icy length of chain about his wrist.

"W-What're you doin'? Stop!" he managed, tugging at his left arm, now held against the bars of the cage by the chain.

"I knew you would try to run away as soon as I was gone," she explained matter-of-factly, ignoring his struggles. "You _always_ do that… So I _let_ you. To see what you'd do."

"Y-Ya what?" he stammered, trying in vain to pry the chain from his wrist using his free hand.

"I didn't expect you to collapse right away. You must be very tired…" Her eyes narrowed. He thought he could hear the servos whirring inside the mechanical one. "Now, tell me… How did you do this?" she asked, gesturing to the open cage door, red eyes boring into his.

Rocket matched her stare for stare.

"F-Flark y—" A chill passed through him and suddenly he couldn't speak. Not the words he wanted to, anyway.

Though she did not move a muscle, he could feel her inside his head, digging.

It was like that time Drax was looking for a screwdriver – Rocket had caught the big, tattooed oaf rummaging irreverently through his stuff without asking, not knowing or caring what half of it was used for and showing no respect for handling a really delicate quantum port synth wrench, which, by the time Rocket finally got through to him, he'd already broken. Not on purpose, mind you, but broken was broken. The muscled man hadn't bothered to put any of the tools back where he'd found them either. It had taken all the raccoon's self-control not to shoot him that day. To Drax they'd been nothing but tools, but to Rocket the whole thing had been a blatant violation of his privacy.

This was the same, but on a much, much more personal level.

Rocket wanted her out of his head. He hated the invasive feeling of having someone else know what he was thinking. She had only been scratching the surface, though. When she didn't find what she was looking for immediately, she started digging deeper, rifling through private things – dreams and memories. The raccoon shuddered.

Thoughts and emotions that didn't go together were bubbling to the surface every time she disturbed a memory. It was like watching a horror film play out to the soundtrack of a comedy. Worse, it was like two drastically different pieces of orchestral music playing at the same time. He was forced to relive Groot's death, but instead of the gut-wrenching grief that should have accompanied the memory, he experienced the overwhelming sense of relief he'd felt at finally being rid of Ronan the Accuser.

She flicked the memory aside carelessly.

And Rocket was remembering a moment where Quill had scratched his head comfortingly, but the treasured memory was overflowing with the anxiety he felt at being touched by a complete stranger. This one, too, she pushed out of her way without so much as batting an eye.

As she continued to grope around inside his mind, Rocket felt his hatred, his anger and his self-loathing spill over into each of his precious few happy memories, tainting them one by one, like brightly coloured paints mixing together until all you were left with was a sickly hue of brown.

 _Get out, get out!_ he cried silently, but she just burrowed herself deeper into his mind, touching things that didn't belong to her, dragging her invisible fingers all along his innermost thoughts and feelings, violating his very soul.

There wasn't enough space for both of them in here and he desperately wanted her out.

He became aware that he was hyperventilating, each desperate breath followed by a sharp stab of pain.

"I picked the lock…!" he admitted breathlessly – anything to get her _out_.

Her lips curled upwards.

Belatedly, he realized that this might have been her strategy. That perhaps she wasn't capable of finding the right memory on her own, so she just made it as uncomfortable as possible for him so that he would volunteer the information.

That was not how she'd gotten the old woman to kill herself, though…

"Give it to me," she ordered flatly.

Before he knew it, Rocket was fumbling for the lock pick in the pocket of his jumpsuit. He stopped and glared at her defiantly.

"Give it here, sweetheart," she pressed, holding out her hand expectantly.

He dropped his free hand to his side and snarled rebelliously. His anger quickly melted into fear as he felt her reaching for his mind once more. This time, she left his memories alone, but his hand started moving of its own accord. His traitorous fingers eagerly worked the lock pick free of its hidden pocket. Though he tried to resist, he could do nothing but watch as his hand offered her the small tool. She grabbed it from him triumphantly.

"There, that wasn't so hard," she laughed.

Rocket slumped against the bars, defeated. Even if he could manage to pick the huge lock with his nails, there was no way for him to reach it with his one arm chained to the cage. He twisted his left arm around, trying to free his wrist from the chain. The lock securing the chain was far too small to pick, even for his little fingers, and he would have to climb all the way to the top of the cage to reach it. His ribs barely allowed him to breathe – climbing simply was not an option.

"Ohh, you've had a rough day…" she fussed. "Come to think of it, you've been through a lot. I mean, we had to rescue you from those bad men who hurt you and put you in that small cage, remember. You need to take it easy."

As she spoke, she took hold of his ear with her one hand, rubbing it between her fingers, hunting until she found that sweet spot. Rocket might have been able to stop the little shiver as she rubbed his ear just so, but the last of his strength had drained away. He had nothing left with which to fight down the embarrassing little purr that sputtered up from inside his chest.

 _I-I'm not some stupid animal, I'm not…!_ Rocket thought, ashamed that his instincts would betray his mind so readily.

Smiling at the sound, the girl continued rubbing his ear. He squirmed feebly, but this only encouraged her. Her light touch became a vigorous massage. Rocket wanted to bite her fingers, but he couldn't escape the trance he was in. He absolutely hated that he found it more difficult to fight his own stupid instincts than fighting off someone who was bigger than him.

"There, I knew you like that," she whispered happily as her rubbing elicited another involuntary purr from his throat.

 _I don't!_ he thought, tears of shame building behind his eyes. _I hate it. I hate how this makes me feel._

His d'ast ear liked the sensation, but he sure as hell didn't want it. He literally had no control over his reaction. If it had been Groot, or maybe even Gamora caressing him like this, he _might_ have admitted to enjoying it a little. But this just felt like she was doing it to humiliate him, to make him behave like a dumb animal.

At last, he managed a slight whimper when she squeezed his ear too hard. He was relieved when she finally let go. The soft flesh of his ear was rubbed raw.

"It's late. You should get some sleep," she decided. She closed the cage door and replaced the heavy padlock. She hopped onto her bed, but did not take her eyes off him. "I'll get you something to eat in the morning. "

Though she never touched them, the candles winked out one by one until the room was enveloped in darkness. Except for that bionic eye of hers casting an eerie red light on the raccoon's cage, everything was black.

"Good night, Rocket!" the girl's voice whispered at him in the dark.

The raccoon sat trembling with what he'd like to think was unprocessed rage and not the other thing, his body pressed against the bars of the cage. He could feel her staring at him. He looked away. Maybe if he pretended she didn't exist, she would disappear.

Of course, his luck had never been _that_ good…

Rocket was miserable. He felt too hot. The chain around his wrist felt cold, though. Like ice. He pressed his burning face against the cool metal – it helped a little – but soon he'd transferred so much body heat to the chain that it became warm to the touch and didn't help anymore.

The discomfort of his throbbing torso kept him from getting any real rest. It didn't help that he was forced to sleep sitting up because of the chain around his wrist. Mouth dry and chest tight, he did his breathing in the barest half-sips to avoid further aggravating his ribs.

That red spotlight from her machine eye never wavered. It stayed on him all night.

His eyelids began to droop. Even through his closed lids, he could still see that red glow. He did his best to ignore it. His mind began drifting. He felt like he was floating and he couldn't focus. But that was fine with him.

He didn't want to think. He wanted to be numb.

After the incident with Drax, Rocket had thrown out all the tools, even though only one or two had actually been broken. It didn't matter. He never wanted to touch them again. Quill had had a fit over having to buy new tools for no apparent reason. He hadn't understood. The raccoon didn't blame him, though. If Rocket could rationalize stuff like that, he probably wouldn't even have issues anymore.

Unlike a bunch of tools, no matter how expensive, memories, however, were not things you could simply toss out with the garbage and then replace. But he wished that he could. Like the tools, they felt different, somehow. Spoiled…

* * *

The most dangerous woman in the galaxy, Gamora, was standing in an elevator next to the green-skinned telepath called Mantis. They were on their way to save Rocket. Not physically. They had no idea where to find him just yet. But locating his consciousness was the first step.

Glancing out the elevator window, Gamora saw billions of lights moving out there in the vast blackness. Mantis had told her that, once you made contact with another mind, you could always find that person again. Here in this infinite, mental ocean, you could. Out in the real world was another story. Though the telepath insisted that this world was as real as the physical one, Gamora couldn't help but think of this as entering a dream.

She watched in fascination as the floor numbers climbed into the thousands.

 _Of all the places to put an elevator..._ she thought, amused.

"We are journeying to your friend's mind," Mantis commented lightly. "An elevator is how your subconscious chooses to perceive this journey."

Gamora decided that she sometimes hated it when people could skim her surface thoughts. Mantis simply smiled.

A soft _ding_ chimed as the elevator stopped and the doors slid open.

Gamora was out in a heartbeat, but Mantis grabbed her arm. Her dark, almost black eyes searched Gamora's urgently.

"Lady Gamora, we do not have much time," she said softly, but fiercely. "Our opponent is another telepath and it is only a matter of time before she detects us. Be swift. I cannot afford to fight her here."

"Don't worry, I'll make it count," the assassin assured her solemnly.

"For our little friend's sake," Mantis agreed. "Good luck."

Gamora turned away from the elevator and stepped into the dream. She did not need to look back to know that the elevator was gone.

Looking around, she found herself in a strange half-jungle. The walls were covered in severe white tiles, but here and there a tree or a boulder or a grass-covered outcrop broke through, giving the place the look of some sort of wild laboratory. The tiles worried her. Remembering the trail of tiles she'd followed the last time she'd been inside Rocket's mind, she suppressed a shudder.

On the ground, she saw clawed footprints in the dirt path to guide her steps.

She found him hiding under a bush, peering at his surroundings suspiciously. His claws were out and his teeth showing, like he expected an ambush at any moment.

Then he saw her.

"G-G'mora?" he breathed. His eyes went big and round and he practically jumped into her arms, burying his face in her shoulder. "Yer alive...!" He clung to her like his life depended on it. "A-And Pete?" he asked into her shirt. "Drax is indestructible, but how's Pete doin'?"

"He's fine, he's fine," she laughed, hugging the little raccoon to her chest. "You know him. The legendary Star-Lord, too stubborn to stay down."

For a long moment, Gamora couldn't bring herself to do anything but hold Rocket's trembling form close. Finally, she set him down lightly and went on her knees so she could be at eye level with him.

"What about you?" she asked. "Are you all right...? Where are you?"

"I-I..." he faltered, ears wilting, wet eyes dropping their gaze to the ground.

"Rocket..." she whispered, carefully lifting his chin with a finger. Reluctantly, he looked up into her eyes once more.

"It's a frickin' dream, ain't it? This… I'm dreamin' this..." he murmured resentfully, voice catching. "None a' this is real. I passed out and now I'm havin' delusions."

"No, Rocket, no," Gamora corrected hurriedly, "this is _not_ a dream." He blinked in disbelief, frowning at her accusingly. "Mantis – she's letting me communicate with you, telepathically." She smiled as understanding dawned on Rocket's mistrustful features and the fluffy ears perked back up again. "We're coming for you. I just need you to tell me everything you know, anything you think will help us to find you."

His nose twitched as he thought for a moment.

"Right, I'm in some sorta castle, real ancient-like," he began immediately, ticking the facts off on his fingers. "Can't see out the windows, they're all covered up, but I smell water – lotsa water..."

She was relieved to see Rocket's clever, confident side shine through once more. Seeing him so vulnerable and hopeless made her blood boil. It made her want to end those responsible. She wondered what he would say if he knew that she would kill for him. He'd probably tell her with a wicked grin that he'd rather do it himself…

"Two bounty hunters: Meedo and Cassidy," Rocket continued, holding up another finger. "They got an S- or a V-class Ripper, not too sure, but I'd bet on S-class. Ship's heavily modified, so they prob'ly have shady connections ya could use to track 'em. Ya find _them_ , ya might get a location outta the bastards... a-and—"

Suddenly, his ears folded back and he went completely limp. She started as he fell into her arms and leaned heavily on her shoulder. She could feel the tremors wracking his small body and it sounded like he was choking.

"Rocket?" she asked, concerned.

"A-And ya better make sure ya save some fer me, cause... cause they—" he hiccupped, momentarily swallowing the rest of his sentence. Gamora realized her small friend was trying very hard to hold back tears. "Th-They—"

He shuddered as she rubbed his back ever so gently. It was all she could think to do until he got his voice back. A sudden gust of wind shook the trees and buffeted Gamora where she knelt with her arms around the trembling raccoon. She squinted up at the storm clouds gathering on the horizon. When had the sky become so dark? She had the distinct feeling that this storm was a reflection of Rocket's inner turmoil, manifesting here, on the landscape of his mind.

Rocket's little sniffles were barely audible above the wind howling through the bushes.

"G'mora, he—he's gone...!" he said finally.

She pulled back in order to look him in the eye, her hands on the sagging raccoon's shoulders. If it weren't for her supporting him, she was sure he would have fallen.

"Who's gone, Rocket?" she questioned, dreading his reply.

When the distraught raccoon said nothing, she tenderly cupped his furry muzzle in both hands. It broke her heart to watch the black bottom lip wobble ever so slightly in one last attempt to keep from crying. The battle was soon lost and the fuzzy features scrunched up in undisguised anguish.

" _Groot_ ," he half-sobbed in a strangled little voice," they killed Groot...! Turned him into a frickin' pile of ash! Ain't nothin' left of him... not even a d'ast toothpick!"

Though in her heart of hearts she'd suspected she already knew what he was going to say, the shock still hit her like a physical blow.

"Oh, Rocket…!" she sobbed, hugging the quaking furry body to her.

"Lady Gamora, we have to go," the voice of Mantis echoed in her head. Gamora took a moment to wipe her eyes.

"I-I have to go now, Rocket," she whispered apologetically, gently freeing herself from his hold.

Rocket's eyes went wide and pleading.

"L-Listen, I don't wanna stay here! C'mon, y-ya can't leave me here with _her_!" he exclaimed, gripping one of Gamora's fingers in a shaking little paw.

"Her? Her who—"

"We must go!" the telepath's shout resounded like a thunderclap in Gamora's brain.

"Rocket, I—" she began, but already the world had begun fading away around her.

" _Now_ , Lady Gamora! Or we _will_ be discovered!" Mantis' sending was bright and loud with urgency.

"G'mora! G'mora, come back...!"

Gamora's heart clenched as the little voice called out to her.

And then she grunted, returning to the extremely unwelcome pain in her abdomen as she was rather abruptly shoved back into her sleeping body. She woke with a jolt. She didn't waste any precious seconds on her own pain, however. She sat up, covering her wince by aiming a furious glare at the telepath seated at the foot of her bed.

"Send me back!" she demanded hoarsely. "I can't just leave him like that. Send me back! _N_ _ow_ , woman!"

Mantis regarded her tirade placidly.

"You were on the verge of being detected," she explained patiently. "You are of no use to Rocket with your mind extinguished."

Gamora did not usually give her emotions free reign, but her rage was bubbling dangerously close to the surface now.

"I could have fought—"

"She has more control on the mindscape than you do. You would be clay in her hands. She would have destroyed you," Mantis pointed out serenely. She did not raise her voice or even blink.

"I don't care!" Gamora shouted at her. "I could have tried!"

Mantis sighed. She looked the enraged assassin directly in the eye. Her antennae quivered slightly.

"And what do you think would have happened, Lady Gamora, had you stayed and fought," the telepath reasoned calmly. "Fought and were destroyed or enslaved, who would have been harmed more, in the end?"

The answer was clear. Gamora bit her lip. She hated this feeling of helplessness.

"Rocket would," she conceded at last.

Mantis nodded slowly.

"You cannot help him any more than you already have, not on the mindscape," she continued and there was empathy in her eyes, "but you can help us find him. You can help us bring him home."

Long after Mantis left to share the information they'd gathered with the rest of the team, Gamora lay in her bunk, staring at the ceiling. Her eyes burned, but she refused to let the tears fall. She didn't want to think about the last time she'd felt so powerless, because it involved memories from a past she'd long since buried. In the fiery crash of the Dark Aster, she'd been reborn – no longer a daughter of the mad titan, Thanos, but part of a new family, a family of her own choosing.

A family she'd vowed to protect, she thought bitterly. A family she was losing one by one.

 _Wait a minute…_ She sat up. _The Dark Aster…!_

Heart thudding, she flew out of bed. Disregarding the burst of pain from her still-healing abdomen and the strange looks she got from the rest of the Milano's crew, Gamora hobbled over to Rocket's room. She almost rammed into the door when it barely opened up fast enough. She could feel the beginnings of a hopeful smile tickling the corners of her mouth as her eyes settled on the pile of charred sticks sitting on the top shelf next to a collection of rare-looking bottle caps.


	13. Beautiful

Rocket gave voice to a hoarse groan.

He couldn't believe that he'd actually slept more than a wink. Before talking to Gamora in that strange dreamworld, he'd been plagued by an endless succession of nightmares about drowning. And then he'd wake from each one with a start, lungs cramped and chest heaving painfully, only to realize that his struggle for air was much closer to the truth than he would have liked. He tried forcing himself to take a deep breath, but hunched in on his hurt ribs before he got very far. _Stupid ribs..._

After Gamora, the nightmares stayed away, mostly, but that was when he started dreaming about food. The uncomfortably hollow sensation in his stomach suggested that the nightmares might have been preferable.

So it was kind of predictable that he would end up hallucinating about the delicious smell of warm scones and melting butter. His stomach emitted a defiant rumble.

He rolled over and was surprised to find that he was curled up on a velvet pillow bigger than himself, with a downy blanket tucked around him. _Where...?_ Did he dare hope? Looking up, his heart dropped when he saw that his world was still surrounded by gleaming golden bars. Even so, the enticing aroma of food lingered. _Was_ he imagining it...? Eyes darting, he quickly located the source of the food smell – a tray with freshly baked scones sat on the girl's bedside table, on the far side of the four-poster bed.

Rocket's mouth watered. If he could get out of the cage somehow, stealing her breakfast would be another small victory...

Something bothered him when he sat up and he noticed that one of the buckles on his jumpsuit was only clipped in halfway. He must have flailed around quite a bit in his sleep for one to have slipped out. Thinking back on the restless night he'd had, he wasn't exactly shocked. Meticulously, he refastened the buckle properly.

It took him a couple of beats to notice that... _Wait a d'ast minute..._ His arm was no longer chained to the side of the cage! Immediately, his eyes shot to the padlock on the cage door. He'd expected her to change the lock, replace it with something he wouldn't be able to pick, but it was the same one as far as he could tell.

Strangely, there was a note attached to it. Rocket stared at it suspiciously before hoisting himself to his feet. And then he was reeling, blinking back the silver specks crowding his vision. When the dizziness passed, he stumbled over to the cage door and grabbed the padlock in both paws. The world was still swaying, but he wasn't sure whether it was his head or just gravity doing its work on the cage, dangling from its chain and rocking back and forth with Rocket's movements.

His eyes fell on the note's elegant script and he felt a growl build in the back of his throat.

"My dearest little Rocket," it read, "I have to work today, but don't worry, I'll be back soon. Please don't pick the lock again, but if you do, your breakfast is on the tray by my bed. Love, Myra." There were several little heart-shaped squiggles scribbled next to her name.

Instantly, and somewhat bitterly, the famished raccoon decided that he wasn't _that_ hungry and that the scones didn't really smell all that great anyway.

"Please don't pick the lock again my furry grunton...!" he grumbled as he jammed his fingers into the padlock quite vengefully and started using his claws to manipulate the tumblers. There was a satisfying click and the lock sprang open.

Tossing the padlock aside carelessly, he reached for the door... and froze. For a full minute, he couldn't make his hand move any closer. What if he opened that door and found a white-tiled laboratory instead of the girl's room on the other side?

 _Look around, idiot!_ Rocket thought at himself angrily. _You wanna sit around in a shiny cage fer the rest of yer miserable life because yer_ scared _!? Get a grip already!_ He clenched his fists, took a deep breath and pushed the door. It swung open easily, with not even a hint of those hated white tiles in sight.

"See, that wasn't so hard," he muttered disdainfully.

Careful not to disturb his ribs, he dropped down onto the rug. Ears swivelling, whiskers twitching, he set to scouring the area for anything he could use to get out of here.

Though he tried very hard to ignore it, the smell of the scones in his nose was relentless. Rocket caught himself debating whether or not she would notice if he just grabbed _one_ and left the others on the tray... _Forget it, flark-fer-brains!_ he scolded inwardly. There was no way he was trusting any food brought by _her_. It could easily be poisoned or worse. It didn't _smell_ poisonous, though... With his keen nose, he could usually tell— _No! Ain't no way I'm fallin' fer that!_ he decided viciously, then clutched his empty belly as it groaned resentfully.

He sifted through the other scents in the room and pinpointed something that smelled promising. Hobbling over to the desk where he wished she would leave her computer – it was obvious she had one from the absence of dust in a perfectly laptop-sized rectangle on the desktop – the raccoon yanked open one of the drawers. Sure enough, at the very bottom, he discovered the source of the sweet-and-bitter smell he'd been following; a half-eaten bar left nestled inside its golden wrapper and forgotten.

Without giving it a second thought, Rocket practically swallowed the thing whole. It was slightly bitter and chewy, with a pleasantly sweet aftertaste that completely balanced out the bitterness. If he'd known the silky, brown bar would be so delicious, he might have been able to make himself eat it a little slower in order to savour its taste, but not by much.

Stuffing the wrapper into his pocket, he continued to search the room when the creepy collage caught his eye; there were new pictures added to the collection. He told himself that he didn't really want to see, but, driven by a sort of morbid curiosity, he padded closer. The new pictures were all pencil sketches – very life-like sketches – their lines drawn, almost reverently, by the hand of a skilled artist. They were pencil sketches of Rocket, each line lovingly rendered, drawn from almost every conceivable angle as he lay asleep inside the elaborate cage.

The raccoon felt his stomach lurch, but it had nothing to do with the level of detail in which this girl seemed to be studying him. The sick feeling had more pressing origins, he realized, as he pulled the wrapper from his pocket and read the list of ingredients of the bar he'd just devoured...

 _Chocolate_... He swallowed. _Not good_.

He remembered Quill lecturing him about how he wasn't supposed to eat chocolate and how it was poisonous for raccoons. Rocket had accused the man of being selfish, argued that he wasn't a 'raccoon' by any stretch, even thrown in several jabs about how the earther would get fat eating sweet things by himself, too. Usually, this was enough to get Quill to share his ill-gotten treats with Rocket, but on that particular day, nothing he said could persuade the stubborn humie to give up the goods.

The horrible flip-flopping in his stomach was testament to Quill's innocence.

Instinctively, the raccoon lunged for the waste basket, just in time to evict the offending confectionery. He barely clung to the edge of the basket for the agony the retching caused in his ribs. After what felt like an eternity of heaving and gagging, he sagged to the floor, relieved and exhausted.

"Damn it... That..." he mumbled tiredly, "was extremely stupid..."

At least the last of the chocolate seemed to be out of his system. His stomach was no longer cramping or doing any kind of gymnastics, thankfully. He was working on getting up when he noticed a crumpled paper ball in the corner, behind where the waste basket had been before he grabbed it. He reached for the paper and smoothed it against the carpet.

This time, the sick feeling in his stomach had nothing to do with anything he'd eaten. Some more straightening revealed the piece of paper to be a discarded sketch of Rocket, this time without his clothes. A cold feeling wriggled around in his gut as he remembered the loose buckle on his jumpsuit.

This sketch was nothing like the others, though.

Where the sketches on the wall showed nothing but careful, affectionately placed lines, this one was drawn by a rough and angry hand. Around the bald spot where the raccoon's implants jutted from his back, the paper was torn in several places and the lines became jagged and violent, like the ones produced by those machines people used to detect earthquakes.

 _What the hell?_ he thought, staring at the ruined sketch in his claws. _I gotta get the flark outta here! I-I gotta_ —

And that was how she found him when she threw open the door; sprawled on the carpet, weak and shivering, unable to fight back as she carried him to the great, golden cage once more. The fact that she didn't even say anything about his picking the lock was disturbing enough, but then she began stroking his head tenderly and it reminded him of the gentle strokes he'd seen on the first pencil sketches.

"There, there," she assured him, "you're sick, but I'm going to make you all better."

What gave him the chills was the fact that this was the same person who'd torn holes in that other page.

* * *

Gamora was not one to show any outward signs of it when she was nervous. Years under a cruel master had ingrained outer calm into her until it came to her as naturally as breathing. Still, she found that she was gripping the ceramic pot holding a sleeping Groot sapling a little more tightly than was strictly necessary as she watched the backs of the two red Ravager coats seated at the bar.

Yondu by himself was not enough to make her nervous. Yondu sitting that close to Peter was what made her nervous. It was only when their self-appointed leader finally turned to her with a winning smile that she managed to breathe again. Peter's former pirate boss laughed uproariously and slapped him on the back so hard that he very nearly pitched forward. She supposed that was the space pirate way of sealing a deal, much like the 'spit-shaking' ritual the people from Terra believed in, according to Peter.

Watching the Ravagers clear out was a great relief. Gamora didn't think she had let any of her discomfort show on her face, but Peter placed a reassuring hand on her elbow, right beside the slumbering sapling.

"Yondu got us a bead on Meedo and his partner Cassidy," Peter reported with that trademark insolent smirk of his she'd unfathomably come to cherish.

"Peter—" she began, a frown creasing her brow, but he cut her off with a shake of his head.

"He'll probably be calling in a few favours of the... less than legal variety after all this is over," he continued, scratching the back of his neck absently, "but this is important. Rocket is important. _Family_ is important."

"You're right," Gamora agreed quietly.

In a barely audible voice she wasn't sure she was meant to hear, he added fiercely: "And I'll be damned if I don't do everything I can to protect 'em..."

* * *

Naked. Cold. Hungry.

Confused.

That was how they left him, without explanation.

The world smelled different. He was still working on the exact 'how' of the difference, but so far the only word his mind could come up with was _full_. Thousands of new scents bombarded the small mammal where he lay trembling. Before, new scents were introduced one at a time and everything else just smelled sharp, clean and featureless. Now the furry animal was barely able to process this bizarre kaleidoscope of odours. It was overwhelming.

He opened his eyes, but everything was blurry. Blinking vigorously, he began making out tall brown and green blotches... Trees...? That couldn't be right... Looking up, he was blinded by a searing bright dot, brighter than the harshest fluorescent lights they'd used inside. He decided that that was the sun and looking directly at it was bad. When his vision returned, he was struck by the vastness of the world, greenery extending further than he could see with his eyes and a blue sky stretching all the way to the barely visible pattern of the Galacian Wall, out in space, and beyond.

For the first time in his life, he was not surrounded by stark white tiles and it scared him. He averted his eyes and started when he saw that he was lying on a pile of crates, some turned over, some stuffed with large plastic bags. Many of those bags held pink meat. Red liquid stuck to the creases on the inside of the plastic. A container of spent syringes had spilled over on the ground, leaving the dreadful needles glinting in the sunlight.

He shivered. He was growing colder by the minute; a steady trickle of hot wetness was leaking from the metal things in his back. Blood. He couldn't see back there, but he could smell it. Did they forget to fix him this time? Or was his failure so great that they'd decided to never ever fix him again...?

No, it couldn't be that. They _always_ put him back together.

But... why leave him _outside_? And without even telling him what he'd done wrong this time. It hurt, because he always did everything they asked and more. His best was never enough and they always ended up cutting him open to find his mistake. Maybe he wasn't smart enough to accomplish what they wanted. He was sure he could have pleased them with the results they needed if only they could make him understand what it was he was doing wrong.

He'd still held out the hope that he could impress them, just enough for them to decide that he was complete. Just enough so that they wouldn't have to open him up and fix him again. Fixing _hurt_.

But now he was out _here_...

Had they forgotten him here?

Why would they do that?

Unless... Didn't they want him anymore, like all the other useless things around him?

"H-Hey!" he croaked, a dry and desperate bark from a mouth still very unused to forming words. They would never hear him, he realized. His pounding heart sounded louder than his voice. "I'm... out here alone...! Please—"

Approaching footsteps silenced him.

The shivering creature looked up at the silhouette standing over him, blotting out the sun. He couldn't make out the man's face. Was he smiling?

"What a shame," a voice said from the shadowed face, followed by a _tisk_ -sound that made the animal flinch – that sound normally meant failure. "They really don't know what they let slip through their fingers..." The figure knelt before the small mammal and put its arms around him. "Come here, little one."

He closed his eyes and let the man carry him away from the place of useless things. His rescuer's coat was warm. Perhaps it was safe and he could sleep without worrying...

But that was when the _real_ nightmare began.

 _N-No, wait, this is all wrong! That's_ not _how it happened!_ Rocket protested as he was snapped into consciousness. His thoughts were sluggish and a sugary taste filled his mouth. Distressed, he tried opening his eyes, but all he could see was darkness.

 _Isn't it?_ the girl's voice asked inside his thoughts. _I found this one behind a locked door. You don't have to hide anything from me, Rocket. I'll love you no matter what!_

 _Get out of my frickin' head!_ he roared at her, but she only laughed.

 _Shhh, I won't tell anyone..._ she giggled. _Your secrets are safe with me._

 _Stop digging around in my memories!_ he growled.

If that was even what they were.

He was sure that one wasn't real. He'd escaped. He'd given those lab coats exactly what they'd deserved on his way out. Only, thinking about it now, he couldn't remember exactly how he'd escaped. A feeling of helplessness swept over him.

 _What's happening to me? Why can't I remember what really happened?_

 _Hush_ , she crooned inside his head. _We'll figure this out. Sleep now_.

And he did.

* * *

The girl, Myra, held her cute little raccoon for a little while longer before laying him down on his pillow gently and crawling out of the beautiful, golden cage.

She was about to lock the door when she remembered she'd left the jar of red honey inside. Listening to the sound of her mechanical joints clicking, she extended an arm to retrieve the jar and screw the lid back on. The sweet, sticky stuff clung to her fingers and she licked them off one by one. The sensation reminded her of the warm wetness of Rocket's tongue when she'd smeared the honey inside his mouth and she smiled.

She wasn't sure if it was the bees' telepathic nature or something unique to the little raccoon, but his mind opened up to her when she applied the red honey. The night before, she'd tried many times to invade his subconscious the way she had done once before, to no avail. Whatever the reason, feeding him the honey did the trick. Now that she knew it worked, the mysteries hidden inside the maze of his mind was hers to explore.

She so loved playing hide and seek.

And that was when the long-awaited sound of the doorbell came.

Hide and seek could wait. Right now, there were more important matters to attend to...

* * *

When Rocket woke again he was propped up on his side awkwardly against a big pillow. There was something in his throat— He tried to cough and nearly gagged. Glassy eyes opened wide to find a tube strapped into his mouth, some form of tape sealing his jaws together around it. His arms and legs were bound to a cold metal surface. Panic seized him and he began thrashing as wildly as his drug-impaired body could manage, but whatever it was they'd been feeding him had left him weak as a day-old kitten.

A hand landed lightly on his muzzle and he froze. Icy fingertips caressed the pale fur lining his snout.

"Shhh, it's okay," she cooed from behind a surgical mask. "I'm going to make you beautiful..."

"Nh-nnn...!" Rocket tried to protest. He couldn't move. He couldn't even scream properly. All that came out was a wordless keen that cut off into ragged sobs he couldn't quite push past the tube thrust down his oesophagus.

"It won't hurt, I promise..." she said, but there was a needle in her other hand.

Rocket wanted to shake his head, but he could not. His skin prickled almost painfully with goose bumps. His eyes watered and a tear slipped free, unbidden.

 _No!_ he thought at her, half-hysterically hoping she would hear his thoughts. _What are you going to do to me!?_

She only smiled.

 _Ear-piercing shrieks filled his ears, so much screaming! Blood spurted everywhere, spattering from the operating table all the way to the far wall. The wild screaming wouldn't stop. There was a woman in nurse attire, clawing in mute horror at her eyes, frantically gouging deep furrows all the way from her eye sockets to her chin, until her head finally, mercifully, exploded. But the endless shrieking continued; the screams weren't ripping from_ her _throat –_ her _body sat slumped and headless against the heart monitor in a grisly mockery of peace. No, the crazed, agony-filled screeches were coming from the operating table_ —

Rocket winced as the fingers caressing his fur tightened around his muzzle, clenching down hard until he thought she would break his jaw. She seemed to notice she was hurting him. She quickly pulled her hand away and lifted the wayward appendage to stare at it in puzzlement until the spasm passed.

She drew a stuttering breath. He used the opportunity to look at her pleadingly.

 _Untie me, let me go_ , he thought at her desperately. _Please?_

"I promise it won't hurt, little one," she repeated in a heated whisper, then looked up to glare daggers at someone on the other side of the operating table that Rocket couldn't see. "Isn't that right, doctor? It's perfectly safe. You see, if the doctor lets you die—" Her eyes widened as if she'd only just considered the possibility. "If the doctor lets you die... he's going to wish _he_ was the dead one... _Isn't that right_ , doctor?"

Her eyes smiled emptily at whoever was standing over the trapped raccoon.

"Y-Yes, Miss Myra," a voice came from behind.

Rocket was trembling so violently now, his whole body seemed to be vibrating.

 _Please, I'll even go back to the cage without a fuss_ , he begged silently, _please just... don't do this...! Get me outta here!_

"Hush now," she crooned as she resumed stroking his fur, bringing that syringe in her other hand ever closer, "you're going to be so beautiful..."

A prick, and then everything dissolved into blackness.


	14. Make You Love Me

**Author's Note:** **Thanks to life, I'm having trouble keeping up with my more fulfilling hobbies, so I apologize for the lull in updates. Let's go!**

* * *

Cassidy, former bounty hunter and, as of three days ago, hopeless drunken delinquent, was only just starting to get comfortable with the idea of wallowing in his own misery for the rest of his life. He knew he should be happy; he was the richest guy in the joint. Hell, he was probably the richest guy on this dingy sinkhole of a planet he'd slunk off to. He was lucky to be alive, he told himself time and again.

But, night or day, the nightmare replayed itself. He kept seeing flashes of those huge, angry bees – each one the size of a small vehicle – bursting through the walls of their ship, tearing it open like the reinforced metal was nothing but flimsy cardboard.

The worst of it was the sound they'd made; at first you could hear nothing but a massive droning noise vibrating off the inside of your skull. But then, if you listened close, there was a high pitched screaming, like the howling of a great storm wind chasing down a narrow tunnel and it sounded like it was shouting _DIE! DIE! DIE! DIE! DIE!_ over and over and over. Even in his only vaguely sober state, Cassidy shuddered at the memory.

Damn, wasn't drink supposed to help you forget these things?

Anyway, all this was going on and Meedo, he was all calm and collected and giving orders as if crazy things like this happened every other day. Maybe he'd known that only one of them would make it out. Why the hell he thought it ought to be his useless partner who nearly lost their payday and always gave him lip, Cassidy would never know. But Meedo knew the type of creature they were facing. He'd mentioned them smelling your brainwaves or something like that. So he'd knocked Cassidy upside the head and jammed his unconscious ass into an escape pod.

When he woke up, he had a great big lump on his head and an even bigger unit slip in his pocket. And he was alone in a drifting escape pod, watching pieces of their ship float by. Among the debris, he'd also found what was left of his partner...

That bastard was a hero and he'd saved Cassidy's sorry life that day.

Nothing had gone according to plan. Not a damn thing. Those units were supposed to pay for Meedo's retirement and Cassidy was going to inherit the ship in order to jumpstart his career as a bounty hunter... Now everything was shot to hell. He didn't feel like thinking of a bright side for this and starting over just seemed like way too much effort.

So, sitting there, trying and failing to drown his sorrows in expensive alcohol, Cassidy really hadn't counted on his day getting any worse.

 _Stop it, man, you're gonna start bawling in front of all these losers..._ he thought, not even realizing that the bar had suddenly emptied out and his only audience was the trembling bartender standing quietly in the corner.

When he finally noticed the unnatural silence, the half-sober ex-bounty hunter turned away from the bar to see if a free drink would buy him some company. He pinpointed two stern-looking green-skinned women, or maybe there was only one and he was seeing double… He went cold inside at seeing the angry-looking man they were accompanying heading straight towards him.

The man walked with a confident swagger in his step and had a slight crook to his mouth that made it look as though he enjoyed smiling. He certainly wasn't smiling now, however. His red coat was thrown back to display two dangerous-looking alien blasters. Wait a minute… red coat…? Was that _Ravager_ garb...!? If there was one thing Meedo had taught him well, it was that you did _not_ screw with the Ravagers. Ravagers always meant business. They had a code and everything. A Ravager would happily kill you – and this one looked anything _but_ happy...

Clumsily, Cassidy half-jumped, half-fell from the bar stool, hoping to escape his fate, when a thick-fingered hand closed on his shoulder from behind and he was shoved back into his chair roughly by a grim, tattoo-covered bouncer.

"Sit," the bald man said with bladed softness, "or I shall remove your spine from your body and use it to restrain you."

Cassidy blinked and stared dumbly at the man. Even his _eyebrows_ seemed to be tattoos!

"I'd listen to him if I were you," the Ravager suggested with a smirk. "He means that _literally_."

Cassidy shrank down lower on his stool. The two women flanking the blonde space pirate were both staring daggers at him – there really _were_ two of them! The one dressed all in black looked more deadly, like she could kill you in a heartbeat, but the one with the pleasantly almond-shaped eyes and the antennae on her head unnerved him more for some reason. She looked like she knew every last dirty thought he'd had since before yesterday.

"W-Who are you people?" the terrified ex-bounty hunter finally spluttered. "What do you want with me?"

"I'm known as Star-Lord, legendary outlaw," the Ravager responded immediately, "you might have heard of me..."

Clearly the man was waiting for some sort of acknowledgement. Cassidy had never heard of anyone called "Star-Lord", but he wasn't about to aggravate the man, so he nodded vigorously. Star-Lord let out a triumphant "Huh!" that, strangely, sounded more surprised than pleased before puffing out his chest importantly. Both women rolled their eyes in unison.

"Anyway," Star-Lord continued, his expression turning serious once more, "we're the Guardians of the Galaxy and we're looking for our missing team member."

He held up a picture and, for a long moment, Cassidy had to squint. The image finally swirled into focus, and, for the second time that evening, he thought he was going to throw up. The fuzzy, bandit-masked critter glaring back at him from the picture was the very same one he and Meedo had delivered right before they were attacked by those monstrous insects!

"I-Is he your pet or something?" he stammered, then shrunk back when he was met with a unanimous look of disapproval. "Oh—um, I-I mean... N-never seen a creature like that before in my—"

The world blurred and his stomach jerked as the deadly-looking lady with the swaths of pink at the ends of her jet black hair answered by suddenly and violently grabbing hold of him and wrenching him into the air by his collar. Her dark eyes had a terrifying emptiness to them, like someone had ripped her soul out and hadn't bothered putting anything back in its place. Cassidy was aware of a nervous giggle escaping past his clenched teeth as she eyed him the way a leopard looked at its prey.

"Not 'creature'. Rocket. My _friend_ ," she hissed acidly. "We have evidence that puts him on _your_ modified S-class Ripper." She lowered her voice and her whisper was all silky poison. "The only thing – the _only_ thing – that is keeping me from carving you open from the inside out is that you _might_ know something useful... so do not lie to me, little man," and then she smiled, a hideous expression that was more the baring of teeth than a display of mirth, "or you'll wish I'd let Drax have your spine."

"Easy, Gamora, easy," the Ravager who called himself Star-Lord interjected.

" _Easy_?" she asked incredulously. "These people took Rocket! They killed Groot!"

Cassidy had a hard time fighting that sinking feeling that was growing in the pit of his stomach. He really wasn't ready to die just yet... True, his life sucked, but a sucky life was better than no life at all.

"Look, Gamora, this is totally not like you, I mean, I expected to have to stop _Drax_ from tearing the dude limb from limb," Star-Lord argued, "but—"

"I'm doing this my way, Peter," she interrupted bluntly.

Cassidy cringed as she stepped closer once more. Suddenly, the green woman, Gamora, threw back her head and howled. She fell to the ground, screaming until her voice was hoarse, spasms wracking her body like some sort of seizure. As she screamed, a vicious-looking saw cleaving through bone filled Cassidy's vision. He _felt_ more than saw the splinters flying. There was blood and metal and an imposing figure with a dark smile. He was so distracted by the horror leaking into his mind that he never even saw the tattooed fist coming down on his head.

Everything went mercifully black.

* * *

 _What the hell was that!?_ thought Peter Jason Quill, who was also known as Star-Lord. He groaned loudly as he picked himself up off the bar's none too clean hexagon-tiled floor.

It felt like a nightmare had just blown in through an open window like a sudden gust of wind. A nightmare strong enough to knock him off his feet!

Looking around, he saw that he wasn't the only one – Gamora lay flat on her back and Mantis was just getting to her feet. He was glad they'd decided to leave baby Groot on the Milano, because he was sure that whichever of them held his pot would have dropped it. Apparently, Peter had missed the part where Drax gave their hostage a knuckle sandwich, though, because the bounty hunter was unconscious and slung across the tattooed powerhouse's shoulder. Drax had obviously decided that he was the one who was harming Gamora.

It had been something far worse, however.

Peter wasn't sure if everyone had been exposed to the nightmare, or even experienced it in the same way, but what he'd seen definitely had the feel of one of Gamora's personal demons. He'd gotten flashes of brutal surgery and of deep, booming laughter and a broad-chinned purple face only a mother could love. He couldn't help but wonder if he'd just had his first real look at the mad titan, Thanos...

He shook himself. Time to act the leader, Quill, not fall apart over a vision. A vision of malice and torture, true, but still.

"G-Gamora...?" Peter called softly.

His legs were too wobbly to stand, so he crawled his way over to the assassin's prone form and reached for her hand.

"Don't _touch_ me!" she shrieked.

Before he knew it, she was on top of him, her blade to his throat. He tried to speak her name, tried to get her to recognize him, but her eyes were wild and unfocused. A sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead. She was gasping like she had run for hours. And the sword was dangerously close to slicing his throat. She was pressing it hard enough to part the skin. Any more pressure and he would be bleeding out all over the floor.

Another green hand came into view, slender fingers touching the disoriented assassin's temple. Gamora's eyes rolled to the back of her head and she sagged forward. Peter pushed the sword away and rolled out from under her with wide eyes.

"Mantis, what'd you do?" he gasped.

"She was hallucinating. I put her to sleep," was the enigmatic green woman's prompt reply.

"Well, what _was_ that?" he questioned, fingering the scratch on his throat tenderly.

"I'm afraid your friend Rocket has been induced with telepathic abilities once more," Mantis replied slowly.

She let that sink in. Peter bit his lip. What was happening to Rocket? They still weren't completely sure how the raccoon had developed those mysterious mind-reading capabilities in the first place. Did this mean that people were _experimenting_ on him?

"It is difficult to say..." Mantis admitted, her antennae wilting slightly. Peter didn't think he would ever get used to someone replying to his unspoken thoughts. "I do know that what Lady Gamora just experienced was a powerful cry for help. It was so powerful that it overwhelmed even her mental defences. It became entangled with her own similar memories, which she inadvertently broadcast to everyone close by. I managed to shield the rest of you from most of it, but..."

"Whoa... If that was me getting _shielded_ from it, then I really don't wanna know how being _hit_ by it felt," Peter gulped, staring at the sleeping Gamora.

The last time Rocket had called out for help, he was being abducted by a Skrull wearing the face of one of his own team members. Swallowing hard, Peter considered this. _Her own similar memories...? That can't be good._

Pulling together his best leader pose, he turned to Drax the Destroyer.

"Drax, baby, let's get back to the ship," he commanded. "I'll take care of Gamora, you bring our friend."

"He is our _prisoner_ ," Drax corrected in all seriousness.

"Of-Of course! That's what I meant..." Peter shrugged absently.

He too busy worrying about what might have befallen their furry comrade to notice that Drax had finally mastered the concept of eye-rolling.

* * *

Doctor Miller stroked his five o' clock shadow uneasily while he waited for his ship's navigational computers to switch over to auto pilot. Having your own private space ship did not automatically mean you knew how to steer the thing, after all. Normally, he had a pilot ferry him around the galaxy wherever he was needed.

Normally.

There was nothing normal about this trip, however. He did without a pilot when he went on his more clandestine runs. In some cases, there were clients who did not appreciate the possibility of a wagging tongue. In others, like this case, _he_ was the one who didn't want anyone carrying gossip.

The money had been too good to pass up and the subject was a fascinating one. He told himself this was what any researcher would do if they fell on hard times; work as a physician at low class clinics that would have him and find other jobs that would be a more fulfilling challenge for a man of his qualifications. Despite money being a key factor in most of his endeavours these days, he was ready to admit that, after witnessing such amazing application of cybernetics on a lower life form, he would have done the job for free simply to have the opportunity.

He loved animals. In med school, he had always been fascinated with how they worked and how he could help them. Cases the other students had deemed hopeless, he'd dared to take on. Creatures with lost limbs, lost eyes, any problem that seemed beyond the help of science. There was even that dog with the crushed skull he'd brought back from the brink of death. It had poor sight afterwards, but it lived for another twenty years before dying of old age.

He'd gone on to get degrees in genetics, robotics, cybernetics, reverse bio-engineering and any other field that furthered his understanding of ways for flesh and machine to work together. In the end, he was overqualified for practically every job, but he would rather scrape by financially and be able to sate his curiosity than be rich and precisely educated enough to compete with average doctors.

That was why this particular case intrigued him so. This little creature, the 'raccoon' as the girl called it, had been worked on and left unfinished, not once, but _twice_! With no idea what the intentions of the puny thing's original creators were, Doctor Miller hadn't wanted to tamper too much with the insides, but he was still astonished by what he'd seen.

What such a marvel of science was doing in the hands of a child, he could not fathom. She was by no means a normal child, but still, that creature was definitely not a pet and neither was it a toy. It was a sophisticated research asset. Doctor Miller didn't even want to think about how expensive it would be to engineer such a thing from scratch... But if he could reverse engineer the original, or _clone_ it, it would be possible to create more subjects, and at a fraction of the cost! Oh, the medical breakthroughs he would be credited for!

He was already making plans to get his prize away from that creepy little brat. He would call Yuro. That man had all the right connections and could easily arrange the quiet retrieval of the subject for him so that the creature might be studied at his leisure. Doctor Miller frowned when the lights on the communications console blinked red. Surely he should be outside the planetoid's interference range by now…

He drummed his fingers impatiently.

His smile returned quickly, however, as his mind began working in overdrive. He could use the clinic's basement as a laboratory. All the necessary equipment would be on hand and no one would think twice about a surgeon working late hours. He would need a proper cage, though. The animal was not easily sedated – he'd had to put it to sleep at least four more times during the procedure! – and it looked like it might be quite strong physically as well.

As soon as he was done talking to Yuro, he could call up the veterinarians in his area. They might sell him a sturdy cage if he spun the right story. The red light on the communications console continued to flicker at him tauntingly.

"Oh, for goodness sake!" he huffed, slapping his palm against the side of the console, as if that could somehow make the light turn green.

He was so preoccupied with the blocked communications unit that he failed to notice the swarm approaching on his rear view screen.

He was still busy trying to get a channel open when the monsters attacked.

* * *

Rocket Raccoon opened his eyes with a start.

 _What happened? Where am I?_

The room was bathed in muted candle light. The soft light glinted off the golden bars that kept him here. It was not a small cage, but it reduced his world to a cramped little prison that was smaller than a room, and compared to the borderless universe he was used to roaming, it was minuscule. Too small. Infinitely too small. A wave of helplessness washed over him and he blinked rapidly to clear the fog from his vision.

His sense of smell returned next and he could feel the feral panic trying to claw its way up into his consciousness as the sharp scents of bleach and disinfectant burned his nose. His fur practically radiated that suffocating hospital smell. _Block it out, just block it out...! Focus!_

Once he worked through the overpowering smell of the sterilizing agents, he tried to sit up, but his muscles were like water. He could barely manage to wriggle his toes. It reminded him of being shackled to—to an— an _operating table_! He did his best to gulp down the hysteria, but his vision blurred and his breathing became irregular as he remembered, _really_ remembered what they'd done.

Straining to raise his head, he peered at his chest. Bandages. He could make out bandages. Pure white bandages were wrapped all around his torso. His fingers twitched. He struggled to grip the bandages.

 _Wh-What did they do to me?_ he thought as his trembling hands began ripping up the dressing. Did they finish, or were they taking him back for more later?

There was always more. Always.

 _Please let them be finished, I'm not going back! What have they done!? Please let them be finished...!_ His thoughts ran in crazy circles as he groped uselessly at the bandages.

Those whimpering noises couldn't possibly be coming from his own throat, could they? But the bandages wouldn't come off.

Still tearing futilely at the bindings on his chest, he let his head drop and looked up at the golden bars all around him. The world was spinning, spinning, spinning. From the corner of his eye, he saw the light reflecting off gleaming white tiles and all around the cage, just outside his field of vision, were medical scissors, scalpels, tongs and other instruments of pain.

 _No, no, they're not there! It's not real! Please let them be finished_ _— It's not real, it's not real, it's not real!_ he repeated over and over to himself, shaking his head and pulling at his ears _. I got out! This is someplace else! Need to stay calm... D-Don't let the animal out...! No escape once the animal comes out. Oh, please let them be finished!_

He tried taking a deep breath and winced at the lingering pain this action caused.

 _They ain't here and they're not coming back, there's nothing-nothing-nothing out there...!_

But the bandages were real. He fumbled at them again, but they just would not loosen.

And the girl and the surgeon hadn't given him enough sedative. He woke during the procedure, in a room with too-bright lights and chemical smells and cutting tools. It _was_ real. Rocket remembered the blood-covered scalpel in the doctor's hand and the pricking needle in hers. Just like back _then_ – someone to cut and someone to prick. Their faces were hazy. Everything went black, until he came to once more and he was lying on his stomach, a searing pain between his shoulder blades. Then the pricking needle came again.

As he lay there in the cage, staring at nothing, old and new memories cascaded over one another until the hyperventilating raccoon could no longer tell which was which. His vision faded into smears of too many clashing colours and then the memories took over. Like the hands of a hundred drowning souls pulling down a single swimmer, Rocket was dragged under by the panic.

His last coherent thought was that he had to get the bandages off, had to see what they'd done to him.

And then Rocket was gone.

With the strength that came from pure adrenaline, the scared animal threw itself against its cage. The impact of the furry body slamming itself blindly into the bars of the cage resounded down the hall. The creature couldn't think. All it knew was that it hurt and it had to get _out_. It stretched out small, desperate hands, reaching through the gaps between the bars as far as its short little arms would go. Mindlessly, the fear-crazed animal pressed its face up against the bars, not understanding that the spaces between were too small to squeeze through, pushing the furry muzzle against the bars until the skin bruised and broke and bled in several places.

Battered and bloody, the confused creature began hurtling itself against the bars once more, ignoring the stabbing pain in its heaving chest.

 _Out! Out! Out!_ was the only thought on its beleaguered mind.

Finally, it collapsed out of pure exhaustion, hot, shallow breaths wheezing from its slack jaw. It lay there, panting feebly, until fatigue overwhelmed its consciousness and its eyelids slid closed.

* * *

The girl, Myra, dusted her hands as she set down the headset. Now the bees were satisfied, Rocket's operation was over and the nasty doctor was taken care of. _Never trust a doctor_ , she thought with a grim smile. He thought he was so smart, thought she didn't know what he was planning. But she'd been listening in on his surface thoughts from the moment he set foot in the castle, to make sure he did as he was told. She hadn't liked what she heard one bit.

Daddy paid for Rocket fair and square. There was no way she was going to let a creepy doctor have him as a research specimen! Nobody was going to do any more tests on him, the poor thing.

 _Rocket belongs to me now…_ she thought, smiling inwardly. _I'll do my best to protect him!_

She heard the rattling of the cage, the insistent sound meeting her halfway down the hall on her way to the bedroom. Was he up already? Was he trying to escape again? She was almost to the door when the thudding stopped abruptly.

Upon flinging open the door, her eyes found him sprawled unmoving on the bottom of his golden cage. Her heart tried to climb up into her throat at the sight of the half-lidded eyes, gaping mouth and lolling tongue. Lying there like that with those cuts all over his face, he looked too much like Sparky had the day of the car crash.

"No, no, no!" she wailed, trembling hands fumbling to unlock the cage.

She'd taken Sparky out of his cage even though Cousin Timmy's mom had told her not to. She'd only wanted to feel his fur on her palms, to show Cousin Timmy how her sweet little pet licked her face whenever she held him close.

She dragged the limp raccoon from the cage and lay him down on her bed. He was still breathing, so he wasn't dead. He was not asleep either, though – his eyes were open, but he just stared at nothing.

"Wh-What's wrong, Rocket?" she asked, smoothing back his ears. She thought of calling the doctor back, but then she remembered that she'd fed him to the bees. _What have I done!_ Hot tears leaking from her one eye, she cradled the boneless ball of fur in her arms. "Come on, Rocket, you can't be dead! Not when everything was so perfect!"

And then he gasped and his muscles stiffened.

She felt an intense shiver of delight as the vulnerable little thing clutched onto her hand and curled in on her fingers. His heart was thundering an uneven drumbeat and he panted urgently as he continued to press himself up against her. She realized that he was afraid. He was shaking so violently, it felt like the warm, furry body was vibrating.

He was afraid, so afraid that he almost couldn't breathe, and he was seeking comfort from _her_! Her heart swelled and she held him close. An abrupt rush of breath hissing from his throat suddenly reminded her that she had to be gentle with the small thing.

Gentle.

Slowly, deliberately, she loosened her grip on the gasping creature until he could breathe comfortably once more. The tremors wracking his form were so strong that they made her think of a seizure. She had to calm him, somehow. Reluctantly, she unwrapped her one arm from around him and placed her hand softly atop his head. She dearly wanted to grope for his fuzzy ears, but, while it worked well to keep him still, he hadn't seemed to like that before.

Instead, she stroked his head. As she did so, a memory rose up from his stormy psyche like a bubble and... _resonated_ with what she was doing. She allowed her fingers to follow the gentle patterns his memory seemed to be feeding her, guiding her until she was scratching intricate lines back and forth along his forehead.

To her amazement, his trembling slowed. He let out a long, shaky breath. She couldn't help but smile happily as a peaceful rumbling sound started up in the back of his throat. The rumbling grew and became a deep and steady rhythm as she continued to stroke his forehead. He was purring!

And as he nuzzled her hand so trustingly, she wondered if there was some way she could keep him like this... But, no, this was likely the effect of all the drugs he'd had from the operation. They'd really had to use a lot on him. Drugs made you sick. Still, it was so sweet it made her heart want to break.

Her fingers itched to remove his bandages, where those ugly metal pieces had been, but the doctor said the dressing had to stay in place for a couple of days yet. She looked forward to running her hand along his back and feeling nothing but the softness of his fur, none of the evil, cold metal underneath. But he needed time to heal.

The creepy doctor had also given medicine, to help fight infection. She would have to make sure Rocket took his medicine.

Heart soaring, she listened to him purr breathily. Then, thrumming in time to the lovely vibration, she could make out something else. It was faint and not a sound to be heard by the ear, but more like a feeling; something only she would be able to pick up with the heightened senses of her mind. Was he dreaming? She smiled and decided to take a peek.

 _The scene was framed in a perfect sunset._

 _He was wrapped up in a blanket and clutching a hot water bottle. Gathered around him were three people and a tree with a face. Each one put a hand on the little raccoon, who had tears of relief in his deep brown eyes._

 _"You are safe now, small one," the bald man with the tattoos assured him._

 _"I knew you guys'd come," the raccoon sniffled, but he was smiling. "I knew you'd come get me..."_

 _"Hey, we'd never leave you hanging, dude," the blonde man said and Rocket allowed him to ruffle his ears affectionately._

 _"You can count on us," added the big tree man with a placid smile._

 _"We are a family..." said the green woman with the dark hair._

 _"I know," Rocket beamed as the group moved in to hug him close._

The girl, Myra, felt jealousy roiling in her gut as she watched Rocket be close with these people, even if it was only in his dreams. Deciding that she was going to be a part of this nice moment, she stepped into the dream.

 _Rocket's eyes shot open wide as she joined the circle of people and placed her hand on his forehead. His ears folded back and he edged away from her._

 _Not understanding why he wouldn't want her to touch him, she reached to grab him._

 _"Don't_ touch _me!" he cried, retreating. "Don't you frickin' touch me!"_

 _The other people, the two men, the green woman and the tree monster stepped between her and the bristling raccoon. Myra frowned. The dream seemed darker than before. Looking up, she saw that the perfect sunset was still there, but somehow it only enveloped Rocket and his friends. She realized that she was standing outside of it, in the candle-lit darkness, by herself._

 _"Rocket, wait!" she called after him._

 _She tried to take a step forward, into the sunset, when a green hand pushed her back._

 _"Leave him alone or I will kill you," the too-pretty woman threatened with undisguised hatred._

And just like that, the dream shut her out. Myra found herself sitting on her bed, still holding her cute little raccoon tightly and blinking in confusion. Nothing like this had ever happened before. Whenever she entered a dream, she was in complete control. She looked down at the dozing raccoon in her lap. His purring had now stilled and he twitched restlessly. He must have incredibly strong feelings for these people to be able to rebuff her in the realm of dreams, a place where she _always_ had the upper hand.

Jealousy was a thick black glob of tar staining her heart.

"After all I've done for you, you love _them_ and not me..." she muttered darkly. "We'll see about that!"

Impatiently, she began thumbing through the memories that lay on the surface of his mind.

He stirred, struggled feebly, but she took the jar of red honey from the nightstand. She decided to give him a good, strong dose so she could finish her work in peace, but even in his trance-like state, he refused to cooperate, keeping his jaw clenched shut. She was forced to fetch the funnel. He tried pushing her hands away from his face, but once she got a good angle, there was no use in fighting. By the time she was halfway through, he no longer resisted. She hadn't really meant to empty the entire pot, but in the end it was better to be safe than sorry.

And so, the girl lay curled up on her bed, petting the ears of the delirious raccoon she held wrapped up securely in her arms.

She did not take notice that the warm, furry body in her arms was growing warmer by the minute. She did not see that the fur under his eyes were wet with tear tracks, would not see that more were glistening in his troubled gaze as he stared dazedly at nothing. In his fever-ravaged state, the powerless raccoon was unable to tell her how badly his chest hurt, could not tell her how difficult it was for him to take deep, normal breaths, did not know how to get her out of his precious memories.

There was no way for him to express that he wanted nothing but to go home and be with his family.


	15. Memories Mine

**Author's Note:** **This chapter practically wrote itself... Please enjoy!  
**

* * *

Rocket Raccoon hummed absently while his quick little fingers worked. He was making weapons, you know, just in case. You never knew when these humies would decide to get grabby. He'd learned the hard way that anything bigger and taller than you turned cruel when they wanted something... like that d'ast orb for example. The thing was worth more units than he'd ever seen together in one place, but, in his experience, these crazy expensive relics usually attracted all the wrong sorts of people.

So all his hair wanted to stand on end when the tall humie who insisted they call him "Star-Lord" came stomping over, yelling about taking his ship apart without asking first.

Like he'd have said yes.

The humie kept on ranting, but the raccoon proceeded to ignore him. Up until the moment he reached clumsily for one of the gadgets on the floor. Not only was Rocket forced to acknowledge his presence, but also to save his sorry life.

"Don't touch that," he warned, "it's a bomb."

So then he was scolded for leaving the thing lying around. He _was_ planning on putting it away, but he was still busy, for flark's sake. He cast about for a decent-sized box in which to stow the explosive so the excitable humie standing over him would pipe down. His fingers closed around a box that was covered in old, faded paper that must have been brightly coloured at some point. Now it just looked withered and sad. The box itself was solid enough, though. All he had to do was remove the ghastly paper.

 _Blink._

Rocket tasted blood when he accidentally bit down on his tongue as Quill swung him through the air by his throat. He let out an involuntary squeak as he was slammed roughly into the bulkhead. The air reeked of violence and there was murder in Pete's suddenly cold blue eyes.

The raccoon tried grabbing his gun, but his legs were dangling off the floor at twice his own height and there was no way he would reach it. It was no use calling out to Groot - Quill had a vice grip on his throat, effectively closing off his windpipe.

Flashes of being choked to death by a cold metal collar and Peter's fingers struggling to find the clasp to get the evil thing off him spun before his eyes and were gone. And then it was only the hostility radiating from Quill and the thick humie fingers squeezing the life out of him.

"Don't you ever put your filthy little hands on anything my mom gave me, _rodent_ ," Peter's voice rasped in his ear, low and menacing, and hearing him use _that_ _word_ hurt worse than the crushing grip on his throat, "or else I'll put you out the airlock!"

Peter let go of him abruptly as Gamora walked past with the orb in her hand and Rocket hit the floor with a grunt. Gamora gave the two of them a quizzical look, no more. Stuffing his hands nonchalantly into his pockets, Quill slunk off after the green assassin, smelling eager. Rocket picked himself up off the floor and rubbed his neck. It felt like those large human fingers were still there, digging.

In a moment of clarity, he narrowed his eyes and peered suspiciously at the ship's interior. This was the _new_ Milano, the one the Nova Corps had given the Guardians after the original was destroyed in the battle for Xandar.

 _Wait... this ain't right..._ he thought, nose twitching.

The others started talking about their destination and what was inside the mysterious orb, but Rocket already knew what it was. The table where Gamora reverently placed the dangerous artefact was cluttered with parts and things that Rocket had recently been tinkering with instead of the candy wrappers and various bits of Earth-rubbish Quill used to have piled up on there before the raccoon claimed the space for a workbench.

Nope, something was definitely off.

All of this happened on the _old_ Milano, but Rocket was sure that if he wandered down the hall far enough, he would reach his own room with his own bed and all the junk he had stashed there, which, logically, _could_ not exist on Quill's original ship. This was clearly the new Milano – being the one good technician aboard had left Rocket with an intimate mental map of where everything was, down to the last insignificant detail – but here they were, plotting a course to Knowhere so they could sell the orb, which happened to contain a krutacking Infinity Stone!

His ears flew back when he heard the others discussing whether or not "the rodent" deserved to have a share of the money.

Rocket fled.

He wasn't sure exactly what he'd done, but suddenly he was standing on tiptoe, touching foreheads with the green-skinned assassin sitting cross-legged on his bed, sharing that warm sunset moment he'd first experienced down in the waterways. When he pulled away and looked up to ask her what was going on, Gamora was gone and he was alone in his small room aboard the Milano.

Thinking furiously, Rocket drew up his legs and wrapped his arms around his knees. With a frown of concentration, he watched the tip of his tail flick restlessly. He _knew_ what was happening here. It was _her_. That psychotic girl was messing with him. Somehow, she was trying to turn memories of his friends against him.

Her first mistake was that she didn't know them at all. Her second, and possibly her biggest mistake, was that she shouldn't have started with Pete.

If she'd started out with one of the others, maybe he would have fallen for her mind games. But she started out with Peter Star-Dork Quill, the man who would never hurt a fly, not even if it was a traitorous alien bug disguised as a fly, intent on sucking his innards out through his nose. It was Pete's weakness, being unable to hurt someone or something that was smaller and, admittedly, physically weaker than himself.

Also, he was the one person on the team aside from Groot who had never _ever_ called him _rodent._ He would spout the occasional "raccoon", sure, but never _rodent_ or _vermin_. Whatever the hell a raccoon was supposed to be, the word wasn't laced with the usual venom or disgust that accompanied the other names Rocket had been called in his short little life.

In the heat of the moment, with those big, strong fingers curled tightly around his throat, Rocket couldn't really think about it, was blinded to the fact that such cruel, vicious behaviour was highly uncharacteristic of Peter Quill. In the end it was the ship that had alerted him to _her_ hand in the nightmare. While Rocket's sharp eyes rarely missed anything when boarding a ship, he'd become so used to the layout of the current Milano that he must have subconsciously replaced the interior of the old craft with the new one in his mind.

Thinking back on the corrupted memory still hurt, but now that he was on to her, Rocket found another stronger, very familiar emotion, one he could use; anger – gut-wrenching, mind-blowing _rage_.

He knew that that had not really been Peter Quill, but a mindless dream puppet, with _her_ pulling the strings. Pretending to know his friends. She _dared_ to defile his most precious memories!

Fuming, he jumped to his feet.

"How dare you!" he shouted, shaking a fist at the ceiling. "Fight fair, ya frickin' _coward_!"

 _Blink._

He was startled to find that he was no longer in his room aboard the Milano, but standing in the golden cage in the middle of the girl's bedroom.

"They're not your friends," a voice echoed from everywhere and nowhere at the same time, "look: friends don't do things like _this_..."

"I am Groot?" Groot's voice called out to Rocket and the raccoon's heart skipped a beat.

All other thoughts fled his mind at the sound. Groot was _alive_.

"G-Groot!? Groot, I'm here!" he answered breathlessly, rushing forward to clutch the gleaming bars of the cage. "Here!"

His big, dumb tree buddy was always there for him. Groot was going to save him.

But his relieved laughter caught in his throat when the tree man poked his head through the doorway and peered at him with empty, red eyes and a grin that was much too wide for his face.

"No, no, no, this ain't you, buddy..." Rocket whispered, shaking his head and backing away.

Groot stepped closer and Rocket found his righteous indignation at the witch child using his memories against him dwindling, the great blaze of anger shrinking smaller and smaller as it gave way to panic and fear until, finally, it flickered, suffocated and winked out. And then he bumped into the bars at the back of the cage and there was nowhere left to run. He stared with wide eyes as his usually good-natured tree friend advanced with that sinister grin on his face.

The true memories of Groot's fingers crushing him, of Groot's vines and tendrils all over his body, prodding, poking and pulling at his cybernetics inside that cocoon, were still too fresh. He knew he wouldn't be able to fight this nightmare even as he was pulled in.

Instead of opening the cage, the tree man put his fingers through the bars and hundreds of small vines flowed forth from his fingertips. The tendrils wrapped around Rocket's shoulders and cupped his face gently. He lifted the trembling raccoon's chin to look him straight in the eye and suddenly Rocket felt a flutter of hope; the glaring red flashlights were gone from Groot's eyes, leaving only the kind, soulful gaze of his best friend.

"G-Groot, I'm so glad yer—"

Rocket never got to finish his sentence. Everything seemed to happen at once. The claspers around his shoulders branched off to entangle his arms, his legs, his tail, tightening until he was caught in an intricate web of vines.

He looked up into the eyes of his friend pleadingly, expecting to see the red-eyed monster who had done this to him the last time... only to find that they were still the eyes of the real Groot, staring back at him, placid and uncomprehending.

"I am Groot," he rumbled slowly, accusingly.

Rocket winced at a million tiny stab wounds as the vines trapping him sprouted razor sharp thorns. Pain flared as the vines pulled taught, sawing through skin and clothing alike. Pieces of his jumpsuit fell in tatters on the bottom of the cage and Rocket realized that his feet were no longer touching the ground.

"Groot, w-what're y—" he gasped, but got no further as he was pulled up against the side of the cage roughly and held there.

"I AM GROOT!" the big tree man commanded curtly.

Rocket's eyes watered and his ears burned with embarrassment as Groot tore away the back portion of his suit to access his implants. He struggled with as much vigour as he could muster, but all he managed to achieve with all his wriggling was to make the thorns dig even deeper into his flesh.

The vines crawled leisurely over the bald skin around the cybernetics on his back, searching, reaching...

"Groot! _Groot_!" he half-sobbed. "Don't—do this!"

He felt the tip of a tiny branch probe one of the sockets, carefully at first. Rocket shuddered as the vine pushed itself deep into the metal port on his back. Another vine joined it, carefully exploring the foreign metal protruding from the raccoon's skin. And then more and more creepers were flowing into his implants, pushing and pushing, dislodging delicate machinery. Rocket writhed, trying in vain to get the pulsing vines to let go, to get out them of his circuitry.

There was a bright spotlight in the ceiling that hadn't been there before. White tiles glistened hungrily all around the icy chamber and he could make out the horrible sounds of animals screaming and hissing in their cages.

"G-Groot, please..." he panted as his eyes began to cloud over, knowing that his cybernetics would not be able to take the strain of whatever the huge tree man was doing to his implants for much longer.

Groot blinked at him impassively, running his destructive vines through the raccoon's cybernetics without a hint of malice. Until he seemed to find what he was looking for. A wicked smile tainted his wooden features then.

And he ripped the implants out.

Rocket arched his back in agony. Before the raccoon could even draw breath to scream, Groot dropped him and he landed in a broken heap. Sparks flew, loose wires dangled and blood poured from the huge hole in his back, pooling around him in the bottom of the golden cage.

"I am Groot..." Groot cooed, stroking the shivering bundle of what was left of Rocket, as if to offer comfort.

Out of nowhere, a rush of flower petals came, followed by a ghostly shriek of rage.

* * *

Rocket clung to the edge of sanity.

The cliff side was slick with saltwater spray from the abyss waiting for him below. His fingers were slipping, slipping. Why was he even bothering? He would waste so much effort, clawing his way back onto the ledge, and for what? To stay here and be hurt, humiliated and violated?

The sea of madness beckoned below, eager to swallow him up, make him disappear forever. Would it really be that bad? To be blissfully unaware of the physical world seemed like a blessing at the moment.

 _Might as well jump..._ he thought bitterly.

It was not like he had much of a choice. His strength was gone and his fingers were slipping anyway.

Just then, like a torch in the darkness, like the shining beacon of a lighthouse guiding him home through a storm, a presence came to him and folded itself protectively around his being. It had no shape that he could see, but it was brimming, no, overflowing, with a wondrous feeling, a feeling so magnificent and beautiful, it was on the verge of being painful.

Rocket knew a moment of rock solid peace, of belonging. And the cliff and the wild ocean was gone.

* * *

Someone was gently scratching behind his left ear, humming a vaguely familiar tune. She had him curled up in her lap, but Rocket was too afraid to open his eyes. If Groot could rip out his cybernetics without batting an eye, Gamora was likely ready to do much worse...

"He used to do this to me, too..." she said in a low voice.

Something in her tone made the raccoon's ears perk up. Curiosity took over and he looked up at her before he could help himself. Her eyes shone with a cold kind of empathy.

Was it really her? Thinking back on the shining presence that had saved him from the black abyss of madness, he knew it could be none other.

Scanning their surroundings, he saw that they were on the dark side of some or other planet's abandoned moon. Rocket stared; this was no memory of _his_.

All around them, crumbling ruins and deep craters littered the surface. Rocket could tell a bomb crater from a meteorite crash site blindfolded; the craters on this moon were definitely scars left by a very old battlefield, perhaps so ancient that the civilizations who had fought here did not even remember it anymore, if they even still existed to have forgotten.

"'He?" Rocket prompted uncertainly when she remained silent.

"Thanos..."

The raccoon gave a start. Gamora had opened up to him about bad stuff from her past before, but never about _him_. It was an unspoken rule between them: they never talked about Halfworld unless Rocket mentioned it first and they never talked about Thanos unless Gamora mentioned him first.

Needless to say, neither of them ever did.

"He tortured me," she continued tonelessly, a single tear slipping down her nose as she bowed her head over the little raccoon in her arms. "I found ways to cope with the physical pain, so he started turning memories of my home world against me, the precious few I hadn't blocked out because I was arrogant enough to think I could keep them."

"GET UP!" a great and terrible voice cracked like a whip from the far end of one of the ruins and Rocket could feel Gamora tensing. "YOU ARE A DAUGHTER OF THANOS! YOU MAY SHOW WEAKNESS ONCE YOU ARE DEAD AND NOT BEFORE."

Suddenly, the raccoon felt like he was treading on holy ground. This was one of Gamora's darkest, most personal memories. Why would she show this to him?

Why now?

Young Gamora's scream pierced the air and Rocket's ears flattened against his skull.

"G'mora, we shouldn't—I-I shouldn't be here—" the raccoon stammered, but she placed a slender finger on his nose to forestall him and pulled him close.

"I have never shared these memories. They have no connection to you," the stoic green assassin whispered in his ear as she cradled his face in the crook of her neck, "and so she cannot use them against you." He felt himself relaxing into her embrace as she stroked his head softly. "Mantis is temporarily shielding us inside this memory, so it will take some time for her to find us."

"Y-Yeah, but—Why _this_?" Rocket pressed. "I-I mean, this can't be easy fer you to see... To let _me_ see—"

"I buried this memory," Gamora admitted. "The deeper it's tucked away, the longer it will take her to discover it."

The flustered raccoon couldn't imagine himself doing something like this for anyone and yet Gamora was doing this for him. He didn't feel worthy of such a sacrifice, but had no idea how to express this. And now he couldn't stop the d'ast tears from welling up in his krutacking eyes no matter how hard he tried.

"It's okay, Rocket," she breathed fiercely as he proceeded to bawl into her shirt. "It's okay."

The salty smell of her tears mixed with his own.

"Dammit, G'mora," he muttered, wiping uselessly at his eyes, "ya gotta stop makin' me cry like this. I got a frickin' reputation to uphold."

"You?" she sniffled with a teary smile. "What about _my_ reputation?"

"Ya got nothin' to worry about. I'm pretty sure I ain't never seen _you_ cry," Rocket replied with a smirk that was only twelve percent forced.

"Good," she said with a small smile, "now, listen. You must not lose hope. We found one of the bounty hunters and Mantis extracted the exact location of the drop off from his mind. We are on our way." Rocket's heart gave a little bounce. He knew they would come for him, but hearing the words made it real. "And Groot is alive."

Rocket felt ashamed that he was torn between happy disbelief and feeling queasy.

"B-But how?" he stuttered.

"You kept a few sticks from the Dark Aster crash, remember?" she replied with as close to an eager grin as one could expect from the most dangerous woman in the galaxy.

"Ya regrew him from _that_!?" Rocket exclaimed.

"He's barely more than a twig right now," she confessed, "but he waved at me this morning..."

"I-I..."

A bright blue thunderclap split the black sky and Rocket flinched. Gamora's head shot up. She seemed to be listening to a conversation only she could hear.

"Already!?" Gamora gasped. "I haven't had a chance to tell him everything...!"

The air crackled with electricity and the ancient ruins groaned.

Mantis appeared out of thin air. She was dressed in white and gold armour engraved with floral designs and she held a golden spear, tipped with a lily shaped head. If it was a bit ostentatious, Rocket still thought she looked pretty impressive. Quill's eyes would probably have fallen out over the shortness of her skirt, though.

 _You are amusing, Rocket_ , the telepath thought at him with a smug smile. _We should get to know one another better once this is all over..._

"Get me outta this in one piece, lady, and I'll frickin' _propose_ to ya," was Rocket's quick reply.

"A man shouldn't make promises he cannot keep," Mantis countered with a mischievous wink that left Rocket feeling just a little disgruntled. To make things worse, he was sure Gamora was giggling behind her hand. The telepath was completely serious when she turned back to Gamora, however. "I will attempt to distract her. You must show him what I taught you, Lady Gamora. He will not last long otherwise."

"You can't fight her alone, Mantis," Gamora protested, hand on her sword hilt.

"Neither can your friend," was the only reply she deigned to give before disappearing as suddenly as she had first appeared.

Gamora frowned.

"What's this about teachin' me stuff?" Rocket asked finally.

The green assassin gave herself a shake and turned back to Rocket.

"All of this is inside your mind," she explained, spreading her hands to indicate their surroundings, "so you should have some measure of control over it."

"Ya'd think," Rocket remarked wryly.

"Unlike that time a splinter of her broke off inside of you and infected your subconscious, _this_ time her attacks are coming from the _outside_ ," Gamora continued, ignoring his smart-mouthed comment, "so if you manage to deflect her attacks, she cannot manipulate your memories. She cannot change them without your consent."

"Believe me," the raccoon shuddered, feeling a sudden chill riding up his spine, "she won't let a little thing like _consent_ bother her."

Gamora's frown grew troubled, but Rocket motioned for her to continue.

"You can't fight her directly. The minute you acknowledge her presence here, you give her power," Gamora went on. "So instead of defending against her—"

"—I gotta focus on unmaking the attack, denying its existence..." Rocket finished in a moment of inspiration. Back at Mantis' house, what seemed like months ago, she had been trying to teach him this very thing. "Lemme get this straight – if I ignore her, she'll flark off and leave me the hell alone?"

"It will not work outside the realm of your own psyche," Gamora pointed out.

"Aww, krutack, and here I thought that'd actually work in the _real_ world," Rocket scoffed sarcastically.

"I meant, do _not_ get drawn into _her_ mind," Gamora corrected gravely. "You would be completely powerless there. Like me."

There was another deafening thunderclap and two figures could be seen doing battle in the sky; one majestic and flowing with swan-like grace, the other rabid and erratic. Lightning flashed as one's slender spear clashed against the other's grotesque butcher's knife.

"And her?" Rocket asked nervously, nodding his head towards the struggle in the sky.

"She can't hold out much longer, Rocket," Gamora replied. "Quickly, test your control over the dream. Try to change something, but start small."

Feeling a little ridiculous, Rocket tried to imagine a patch of grass growing in the dirt. You know, just in case he needed to beat it up for some reason. That was small enough, right? The lightning in the sky made his ears flick nervously. He frowned at the spot where the grass was supposed to appear.

Nothing happened.

"I-I can't do it!" he groaned, tugging at his ears in frustration.

"You can," Gamora assured him, her hand firm on his shoulder. "But you must not doubt."

"Come _on_! Not this touchy feely believe-in-yerself glark, G'mora!" he complained. "Not from _you_!"

Suddenly, the sky became blindingly white. Rocket and Gamora both looked up just in time to see the butcher's knife cleave Mantis' chest, cutting through her armour like it was nothing but a second skin, sinking into her green flesh all the way to its chain-wrapped hilt.

"No—" Gamora gasped.

Two jittery, red flashlight eyes slowly turned toward them and locked on to Gamora.

"YOU DARE STEAL MY LITTLE ONE'S HEART?" the wraith-like figure screeched. "I KILLED YOU BEFORE! I'LL KILL YOU AGAIN!"

Like a bullet, she shot from the sky, aimed straight at the green assassin. She was closing too fast. There was no time to think. On instinct, Rocket pushed Gamora out of the way and into the escape pod. The instant he shut the door, it was gone. He had but a moment to wonder where in the world the escape pod had come from or disappeared to before the ghostly thing with the red eyes and the dripping cleaver stood over him with a wild smile. Ears flat, lips peeled back in a snarl, Rocket backed away.

"Come on, now, little Rocket," she cajoled, her smile growing more and more crooked by the second. She tossed aside the vicious knife with a resounding clang. "If you promise to love only me, I will leave your friends alone."

"How's about ya leave _me_ alone?" he shouted, firing the Hadron Enforcer that was suddenly in his hands, aiming directly at her face.

But as he squeezed the trigger, the weapon crumpled to dust before his eyes.

"It doesn't work like that, silly," she giggled, a disjointed sound coming from such a ghostly shape.

Wait, he was going about this all wrong... He needed time to think. But her needle-tipped fingers were reaching for him. If those things touched him, he would be back _there_.

Rocket decided to take a leap of faith. He closed his eyes and imagined her very far away, on the other side of the moon.

"No fair!" he heard her shouting from afar, and then suddenly her breath was tickling his ear. "I can still fly faster than you can throw me..."

This wasn't working. He had to try something else. He had to shut her out completely. He had to escape... He still wasn't sure what made him think of it, maybe it was providence, but just then, he remembered something Quill had told him. They'd been arguing over who was better at escaping, of all things, and when the raccoon had proudly pointed out all the skills _he_ had that the half-terran lacked, Quill had cryptically stated that there was more than one way of escaping. He'd proceeded to put on his headphones and ignore Rocket until he'd proven his point.

 _Well, Pete, it's worth a shot..._ the raccoon thought grudgingly, closing his eyes and putting on Quill's prized headphones.

Instantly, his heart filled with nostalgia even as his ears were flooded with the too-loud _OOGA CHAKA_ 's of one of his human friend's favourite songs. He listened to every song until he thought either his heart or his eardrums would burst.

She did not bother him again until he regained consciousness.

* * *

"No, no, this can't be good!" Peter Quill exclaimed as he cupped Mantis' face in his hands. She'd sat up with a gasp, a look of horror in her eyes, before collapsing back onto the bed. She had not moved since, and now she had become a very pale shade of green. Her nose was bleeding, too. "C'mon, Mantis, what's wrong!?"

He nearly had a heart attack when Gamora suddenly bolted upright on the other bed.

"Back off, Peter," she snapped when he tried to help her up.

He had a snappy remark about chivalry and its cause of death ready, but he realized that she must be distressed. After what they'd been planning to do, she had every right to be.

"Any idea what happened to our telepath?" he asked instead.

Gamora's eyes grew distant.

"Mantis was injured fighting the other one," she replied. She looked over at the telepath's prone form, watched the slow rise and fall of her chest. "But if anyone can recover from such a wound, I think it's her..."

Peter was almost afraid to ask his next question, but ploughed ahead anyway.

"And Rocket...?"

"I think we got there just in time..." she murmured, eyes glittering. "He's in serious trouble, Peter. We managed to teach him something of how to defend himself, but I'm not sure it'll be enough. His mind is being assaulted in the most hurtful way possible..."

A shadow crossed her features, then, and Peter couldn't quite contain the sudden violent urge to punch the wall. It always looked so dramatic in the movies, but punching walls was not a very practical way to let out your frustration, he learned. He ended up bruising both his ego _and_ his knuckles.

"Can't this damn ship go any faster!?" he cursed when he finally found his voice again.

"The ship is currently moving at maximum velocity," Drax replied sincerely.

* * *

Rocket felt ill.

He'd woken inside his glorified golden cage what felt like hours ago, but the effects of whatever she had given him had left his body weak and his mind disoriented. He had been unable to move, but now, he finally managed to roll over onto his stomach.

She would come again, he knew. He'd beaten her this time, but she would be back. She would come to twist around his memories. Maybe this time she would succeed. Maybe she would break him and he would believe her lies.

He had to escape. Failing that, he would have to be ready for the unthinkable.

Hurriedly tossing aside the blanket and the velvet pillow, Rocket started clawing at the gilded surface of the cage underneath.

He knew that she could easily hear his thoughts, so he vengefully focused on thinking about how much he cared for the Guardians. He thought of how blunt and dense Drax could be sometimes and how that didn't matter, how awkward and embarrassing Peter Quill normally was and how that didn't matter, what a prickly perfectionist Gamora was and how that didn't matter either.

And Groot... Groot was alive. Noble, selfless Groot.

They were a bunch of idiots! They were idiots, but they were _his_ idiots. His family.

He tried to think of anything and everything except what he was doing as he kept scratching at the bottom of the golden cage. Scratching, scratching, scratching until some of his nails split. Thinking of a dozen other things, but never pausing in his urgent scratching. Scratching, scratching, scratching until his nails tore and bled. Thinking of nothing but how desperately he needed to escape.

Scratching, scratching, scratching... He had to finish before she came back.


	16. Mindjacked

**Author's Note:** **Thank you for the reviews and PMs, guys, I really, really appreciate every single one!**

* * *

 _The cage is safe. Don't leave it. Stay here._

 _The cage is safe. Don't leave it. Stay here._

Over and over, Rocket repeated the words to himself like a mantra. Though the witch child had no clue what they really meant, his vehement thoughts that the cage was the only safe place in the world seemed to please her. The closer she was, the more intensely he chanted the phrase, as though it could save him.

Let her think what she wanted.

At least he could sit up again, finally. There was a lingering weakness throughout his body and the beginnings of what promised to be a monumental headache was itching at the edges of his vision, but at least he could move his muscles now. His eyes refused to remain focused for long. It took some serious effort to keep from seeing double. Closing his eyes would have been less strenuous, but he wasn't about to let his guard down for a second.

She was watching him, still, with those greedy eyes of hers. The intensity of her rapt gaze made his skin crawl.

She must have been worried, for he'd never seen her draw the heavy bedroom curtains before. He couldn't make out much of the world outside, because the windows were high and the cage hung too low, but the breath of fresh air gusting in through the open window was a blessing. The air was heavy with the smell of moisture, to his sensitive nose, at least. There definitely was a whole lot of water close by.

He ran his pads up and down over his chest, where the tightly wrapped bandages had been. When he was finished with the bottom of the cage – _The cage is safe. Don't leave it. Stay here,_ he chanted automatically – he'd carefully rearranged the pillow and blanket before finally setting to meticulously removing the bandages and checking out the damage they'd done to him.

He'd been prepared for anything from ripped out parts, so he would be more dependent on her, to extra augmentations so he could be more like her – _shudder_ – to missing kidneys. He'd figured Daddy must have forked out so many units to get his hands on Rocket that they were probably flat broke at this point. Kidneys of all shapes and sizes did well on the black market, because you never know when a midget might be in need of a kidney… He knew the chest cavity wasn't typically the place you'd look for someone's kidneys, but anything was possible with these mad scientist-types. Anyway, it sounded just like the kind of lame-ass scenario life would think up just to throw at him because it could – get himself kidnapped and end up financing his own kidnapping.

What he hadn't expected was to find his implants neatly covered up. Even on his back, for as far back as he could reach, he was stunned to find an unbroken stretch of fur, marred only by the finest stitches. No bald patch, no scar tissue… If she hadn't been treating him like her frickin' pet slash prisoner, he might even have thanked her.

As it was, he had blinked angrily to clear his vision and moved on.

He'd demanded his clothes back, naturally, and for once, she'd obliged. Granted, this was his first request that didn't involve "Lemme out!", "Put me down!" or "Get the flark away from me!", so maybe that was why he was finally getting results... sort of.

She'd brought him a pair of black shorts and a skin-hugging black shirt with no sleeves that was just a little too short to cover all of his belly fluff. The tight-fitting shirt made the fur puffing out around the sleeves and collar seem more plush and the thing was a little too revealing for his tastes, but, frankly, he'd rather dress uncomfortably than stay naked like some animal.

 _The compromises I'm forced to make..._ he complained inwardly. _  
_

"You must be hungry," she decided suddenly and ominously, and the raccoon felt his heart sink.

Rocket's sense of dread spiked as she reached for a jar that sparkled red in the early morning sunlight. The thick, blood-coloured honey wobbled on the spoon as she held it out to him with an eager grin.

"Open wide," she cooed in a sing-song voice.

Wordlessly, he turned his face away as the spoon came too close. The smell was overpowering and he felt his stomach lurch involuntarily.

"Come on," she urged with a frown, "raccoons are supposed to have a sweet tooth! If you like marshmallows, you'll love this..." She poked the spoon at his muzzle repeatedly. "Here, eat it!"

Rocket shook his head, kept turning his face away. There was no way he was eating that glark. Not after practically drowning in it. Besides, he had a funny feeling the stuff was bad for him...

"What's wrong, little one?" she asked excitedly, mercifully taking the spoon away. "Are you sick?"

"I-I ain't hungry," he replied simply, not quite sure what to make of her sudden enthusiasm.

This was clearly the wrong thing to say, he realized, as her red eye sparked and her real eye glinted dangerously.

"Either you're sick, or you're being difficult," she reasoned.

"N-No, 'm not sick," Rocket protested and suppressed a shudder when her expression darkened further. He had to change the subject, somehow, and fast. Before she decided he needed to be punished for being 'difficult'… "Listen, jus-just lemme outta this," he ventured, indicating the cage, "and how's about you 'n me be pals, yeah?"

The only way he was getting out of here was if she trusted him enough to roam. But that was never going to happen.

"I can tell when you're lying, little Rocket," she said flatly, her mouth drawing into a thin line. "You just want to get out because you want to run away."

 _Can you frickin'_ blame _me?_ he thought before he could stop himself. He might as well have said it out loud.

Her eyes lit up with rage, the red one's servos whirring and clicking as it followed her real eye in and out of focus. Suddenly, her mouth seemed too wide and her teeth too many as her lips quirked into a deranged grin.

"Fine," she tittered, "I understand... You don't love me just yet." She smiled dangerously as she unlocked the cage with her one hand. "But you will..."

The cage was open. So was the window. _Move, flarknard!_ he cursed himself, but he might as well have been chained to the cage for how little his muscles responded to his brain. She'd done something to him – was _still_ doing something – the same way she'd lifted the heavy four-poster bed without using her hands on that first day.

She slathered a big blob of honey onto her other hand and held it under his nose. "Now, eat. It's not as much fun this way, but I guess if you're strong enough to backchat me, there's no harm in it…"

 _Blink._

The next thing Rocket knew, his muzzle was sticky and there was an uncomfortable pressure in his stomach, like he'd eaten too much. She pulled her hand away from his face. His gut twisted in horror when he saw that her palm was licked clean except for a few stray globs of red honey.

He couldn't quite manage to suppress the moan of disgust welling up at the back of his throat. How many handfuls had she made him devour? Going by the tightness in his belly, it couldn't have been just the one. His estimates were confirmed when she casually discarded a completely empty honey pot.

A powerful wave of dizziness hit him and he collapsed. His limbs slid out from under him uselessly and, failing to brace himself as he went down, Rocket was vaguely aware of his ribs protesting his unceremonious impact with the cage floor. In a daze, he lay there, half curled up on the velvet pillow lining the bottom of the cage, wondering why it was suddenly so hot. He couldn't help his tongue flopping from his open mouth any more than he could stop his eyelids from fluttering closed.

"Let's play, Rocket," he heard her giggle as he sank into unconsciousness. "My memories, or yours?"

* * *

He was standing in the courtyard of a massive alien castle.

In the centre, a great big fountain spouted pink crystal water and little unicorn-frogs frolicked among the lily pads. Idly, he wondered what the going rate for magical fantasy frogs was on the open market... Parapets of stone were topped with state of the art surface-to-air sentry turrets. The sky seemed strangely shrouded. It wasn't dark, exactly, but there was no real light, either. In fact, he could find no discernible light source – there was a soft, grey light that wasn't coming from anywhere, but simply seemed to _be_.

In other words, everything seemed... _dream_ -like. Looking down, he saw that he was wearing his orange jumpsuit. So, he _was_ in the dream, then.

Out in the open, he realized with a pang.

He'd tried preparing himself for this, though he didn't have a solid framework to base his logic on. His practical sense as a field engineer told him to deal with it, though – you worked with what you had.

Besides, giving up was _not_ an option; Rocket Raccoon surrendered to no one.

Just then, the courtyard came to life with shadows and monsters, beast-like, but walking on two legs, emerging from behind the fountain's stonework and the surrounding buildings. Their ghostly forms were made of dark smoke. They regarded him with eyes burning like bright red coals as they crept ever closer.

Leading the pack of eerie, bipedal creatures was a figure of black mist with gleaming red flashlight eyes. Her butcher's cleaver hung at her belt from a hook on its chain-wrapped hilt. Mantis' blood was on that cleaver. Was the telepath dead, or had she somehow survived? What happened to someone who took a fatal wound in the dream world? Did you die in real life, too?

Rocket felt his confidence waning, all the plans he'd been working on during his precious few waking hours seemed flimsy and implausible. If a master like Mantis was defeated so easily, what chance did an amateur like Rocket have?

The leader advanced holding a leash with a metal collar attached to the end, which she twirled lazily at her side. Her grin was wider than her face and widening with her every step.

"You'll be my perfect little pet," she whispered hoarsely as she approached, fondling the leash between her fingers. "You'll forget your friends. You'll forget that green _woman_... and you'll love only me!"

Rocket caught himself backing away from the deranged girl's foggy silhouette. But her pack of monsters, silver fangs bared menacingly, were circling threateningly. They had him surrounded. The cornered raccoon returned the sentiment in earnest, lips peeled back in a snarl and swiping at any of the creatures that dared to stray within range of his claws.

"Enough of this," the witch sighed. "Bring him!"

And they pounced.

The hapless raccoon had to fight down his own panic as the creatures reached for him with all too human hands, much bigger than Rocket's own hands, much bigger than their hands had been just moments ago.

"Lemme go!" he gasped as the crowd of monstrosities clambered on top of him to keep him still. "Get off me!"

Rocket could smell their foul breath, like burnt sulphur, as they lay on top of him, panting like filthy dogs eager to please their mistress. He heard the crunch of gravel as the girl stepped forward with her leash and his hair wanted to stand on end. He wasn't quite clear on all the rules of this place, this realm of the mind, but somehow he just knew that if she managed to collar him, it was game over...

But she wasn't inside his mind yet. All of this was her trying to intimidate him, trying to get in.

She smiled down at the trapped raccoon at her feet.

"Y-Ya ain't gettin' me that easy!" he scoffed and hoped against hope that his idea would work.

The creatures holding him down, they were smoke, he assured himself. Smoke could not hold him. The sulphur smell was already dissipating. Emboldened by this bit of progress, Rocket closed his eyes and pictured himself safely inside the cockpit of the Milano, where _he_ was in control. Upon opening his eyes, he watched in satisfaction as the pack of smoke-creatures floated helplessly outside the ship, melting away into the cold, dark void of space.

"Little Rocket," her voice crackled over the communications unit, "surrender now, and I won't tear your ship to—"

With a flick of his wrist, he promptly silenced the ship's comms. It was just like putting on Pete's headphones. Once he denied her access to his mind, she couldn't touch him. He allowed himself a little smirk as he switched on Quill's tape deck and sat back in the pilot seat. All he had to do now, was wait for Quill, Gamora and the rest to come pick him up.

The Awesome Mix tape was halfway through _'Come and Get Your Love'_ when, suddenly, the music dragged out in slow-motion before coming to a garbling halt. The lights dimmed and even the emergency lights lining the floor and controls flickered alarmingly. The temperature inside the cockpit dropped drastically and Rocket found himself shivering in complete and utter darkness for a full minute before life-support slowly came back online.

"W-What the hell was that...!?" he shuddered and bit back a curse when he saw his breath misting in the still-frigid air.

Hurriedly, Rocket ran a diagnostic. It shouldn't have been necessary, as the ship was his mind's own creation and was, in fact, in better shape than its real life counterpart had ever been, but _something_ had caused all the systems, including flarking _life-support_ , to power down. That was serious!

 _Wait..._

Rocket froze, clawed fingers suspended over the console as he put two and two together. Shakily, he sat himself back down in the pilot seat. _If my ship's life-support is failing... then that means..._

He should have known things wouldn't be so easy.

He was working with far too many 'if's here, but if getting injured here in the dream affected your body out there in the real world, who was to say your physical condition in the world outside couldn't affect things in here? Maybe it was simply that he was close to regaining consciousness and that was why the dream was acting up, but somehow he couldn't quite convince himself of that. It seemed too much like his body sending him a subliminal warning that things were dire out there.

Maybe that stuff she'd forced on him was just making him really, really sick, or...

 _Am I... dying?_

What if his life-support shut down completely and never came back on? Would he die here, in the cold depths of space, or would he die out there in the cage? What would be the last thing he ever saw? He couldn't fathom why that was so important all of a sudden, but he thought he would rather see the endless stars one last time than die surrounded by glittering bars...

He jumped when, without warning, the tape deck started blaring _'Ain't No Mountain High Enough'_ over the speakers as loud as Quill usually played it. That blasted humie was half-deaf, Rocket was sure of it!

Shrugging, he drummed his fingers on the chair's armrest in time to the beat. The ship wasn't just trying to tell him that he wasn't doing so well, physically. It was also telling him that he just had to hold on for a little longer. Pretty soon, his family would come barging in through the door, kick that freaky little girl's ass and take him back home, where he belonged.

She couldn't touch him in here, so all he had to do was sit tight and wait for the Guardians to come to his rescue. In any other situation, he would have had to cringe at how corny that sounded, but right then, it was like a beacon of hope in the darkest night.

* * *

Peter Jason Quill – also called Star-Lord when he got his way – stared despondently at the sight greeting him through the Milano's main window.

"Are you sure this is the coordinates Mantis got from Bounty-Hunter-Boy's brain? There's gotta be some mistake," he reasoned, tugging irritably at his forelock.

Where they'd expected a planetoid, a satellite or maybe a space station, there was nothing but a huge cluster of asteroids and debris spiralling at a fatal speed. Navigating the Milano through that would be a suicide mission – the shields wouldn't hold for ten minutes.

Gamora nodded grimly. Peter was about to say something that would probably have made the serious, green assassin angry when Drax stormed in, dragging the bounty hunter, Cassidy, after him, one of those vicious knives of his at the man's throat.

"P-Please," the bounty hunter whimpered, "I didn't do anything, I swear!"

Drax tossed Cassidy to the floor with all the force of a hurricane and Peter winced involuntarily as the man's head impacted with the back of the pilot's chair with a loud crack. Miraculously, the thick-skulled loser seemed to somehow still be conscious.

"This man has betrayed us, Quill," Drax rumbled, and there was such pure, violent rage in his eyes that Peter could easily imagine this guy murdering Thanos with sheer willpower. "I say we tear his living heart from his chest!"

Cassidy paled and started babbling some incoherent garbage about how he hadn't known it was their friend and how sorry he was for stealing their little golden rodent. At the mention of that hated word, Peter felt his own blood begin to boil. Before he knew it, the bounty hunter had a black eye and Gamora was planting herself squarely between Peter and their gibbering prisoner.

"Hold a moment, you two," Gamora intervened frostily, "Mantis lies in a coma. While I wouldn't normally care if you took turns beating this cowardly worm to a pulp, at the moment he is the only one who can guide us to the location where Rocket is being held."

Drax merely grunted, but Peter hung his head in shame. He'd lost his cool. He spared a glance for the blubbering bounty hunter and was surprised to see the man smiling hopefully.

"I-I can do that!" he exclaimed eagerly. "I can help you find..." he seemed to carefully consider his next words to avoid volunteering himself for punching bag duty, "what's his name...? Rocket?"

"Yeah, my best buddy, Rocket," Peter replied, biting off each syllable harshly, "and don't you forget it."

"I-I won't," the bounty hunter promised. "Here, let me double check the coordinates for you. There definitely was a small planet where we dropped off um... Rocket." Gamora watched Cassidy closely as he was allowed access to the ship's navigation system. "Wait... What?" He frowned as he read and reread the numbers on the screen. "I don't get it... these are exactly right...!"

He stepped back from the console to look out the window.

"You're certain?" Gamora asked coldly.

Cassidy's eyes widened suddenly and he pointed at something floating on the outer rim of the asteroid field.

"I knew it!" he shouted. "L-Look, there! It's part of our— my ship...! Look!"

Gamora raised an eyebrow sceptically. Peter followed her gaze and was surprised to see a piece of debris that might have once been an outer panel of a ship, decorated with a grotesquely fat, nude female alien spray-painted on its side. _Seriously?_ He found it very difficult not to chuckle at the theme of their key piece of evidence.

"You have very poor taste..." was Gamora's dry reaction.

"Hey, there are more ship parts floating out there..." Peter noted, pointing them out to Gamora. "Could all of it have been part of their ship?"

"No," the green assassin answered quickly, gesturing, "look over there. Those pieces are from highly advanced medical equipment. Looks like it wasn't just the bounty hunters that had their ship destroyed..."

"Do you think the same giant bees attacked a medical cruiser too?" Peter ventured.

They had to be in the right place. It couldn't be a coincidence that the bounty hunters had their ship sunk by a swarm of overgrown bees. Thinking back once more on how all this started, Peter couldn't help but conclude that, somehow, these rare space-faring insects were connected to Rocket's kidnapping.

"Possibly," Gamora shrugged.

"He is making fun of us!" Drax interrupted with a scowl. "I do not see any bees, only rubble and asteroids. That must be what destroyed the ships." He hefted his knives threateningly. "I have had enough of this man's lies! Let us eviscerate this villain and be done with him!"

"And _then_ how will we find Rocket!?" Gamora snapped at him, one hand hovering dangerously over her sword hilt.

Peter winced. He didn't want to have to be the one to break up a fight between the team's two hardcore warriors, much less defend a sleaze bag bounty hunter – who'd helped kidnap Rocket, mind you! – from said hardcore warriors. So Peter was embarrassingly grateful for the beeping tone that announced an incoming transmission from the Brandt household.

To his surprise, it was not the super snobby rich man himself, but his son, Timmy.

"I found out why Father was so secretive about his invisi-drape technology," the boy stated. "It wasn't stolen, but he wasn't selling it under the table like I first suspected either." Timmy looked down and twiddled his fingers together restlessly. Finally, he looked up. "Turns out... it's a family matter."

"Go on," Gamora urged.

Peter was relieved to see that she had moved away from Drax to look at the screen. Drax had also turned his attention to the screen and was, thankfully, only holding Cassidy by the back of his neck and not actually harming him.

"When I was little, I was in a car accident," Timmy began slowly. "I lost more than the use of my legs that day. It was the day my mother died." Peter had to clear his throat as that big, scary feeling of being alone in the world without your mom crept up on him. He wasn't good at dealing with this kind of thing, he decided. "My cousin was in the car with us. She didn't die, but she was hurt a lot worse than me..."

"That is indeed tragic," Drax nodded, "but I do not see how this will help us find Rocket."

Timmy seemed to pull himself together.

"Sorry, Mr Drax," he apologized with a sad little smile, "I'm getting to the point now. Cousin Myra was very badly hurt. Father told me at the time that she'd had a lot of operations so she could live. My cousin and her father never visited us since the accident, so I never saw her again." Timmy brightened, then. "And here's where the invisi-drape technology comes in. I found several threatening messages my uncle sent Father, blaming him for Mother's death as well as my cousin's condition, and to keep him from taking legal action and making a big scene on the media, Father gave him the invisi-drapes."

"Emotional blackmail..." Gamora observed under her breath.

"Say, kid, did you hack into your dad's mail box?" Peter put in casually.

Timmy blushed. Peter grinned.

"I suppose I did, Mr Star-Lord..." he admitted. "But it's for a good cause, right? Rocket saved my life and I want to return the favour." Drax nodded his approval at this. "Anyway, my uncle is hiding something. I've been trying to contact Cousin Myra, but she hasn't been online in weeks."

"Hey, Timmy, do you think someone could use the invisi-drape technology to make an entire planet disappear?" Peter asked.

The boy thought for a moment.

"With a big enough power source, I guess so..." he replied. "Why?"

"Thanks for the info, kid. Wish us luck," Peter said, jumping into the pilot seat. "We're gonna go get Rocket!"

"Good luck!" Timmy cheered and signed off.

"W-Wait, _where_ are we going?" Cassidy piped up nervously.

"We're gonna go find us a raccoon in a haystack!" he declared in his best 'leader' voice.

Careful to evade the derelict ship parts drifting everywhere, Peter steered the Milano full speed ahead into the cluster of spinning space rocks.

"Peter, have you lost your mind!?"

Gamora's fingers dug into his shoulder as the asteroid field came closer at an alarming rate.

"Quill, that is an asteroid field, not a haystack!"

The asteroids made no impact at all as the Milano glided straight through the illusion that was hiding the small planet in plain sight. There was a wobbling blur, the way the air shimmered on a very hot day, and there it was; an almost entirely blue planetoid, shielded by massive generators mounted with invisi-drape machines.

"So _that's_ what those are for..." Cassidy murmured in awe as they passed the generators.

Gamora plunked down in the co-pilot seat with a relieved sigh. Her smile melted away into a stern expression when she looked out the main window at the rapidly growing planet ahead. Somewhere down there, their furry friend was undoubtedly being held against his will.

"Oh yeah!" Peter crowed triumphantly, hoping to lighten the mood. "Who's ready for some victory tunes!?"

Just then, a great droning noise could be heard vibrating throughout the ship's hull, followed by the high pitched howling of wind whistling down a tunnel at breakneck speed. Peter thought that if he listened closely, he could hear the wind screaming words that sounded like _DIE! DIE! DIE!_ over and over.

"No, no, no..." he heard the bounty hunter whimper behind him.

* * *

During his time spent in the dream world, Rocket discovered that his subconscious version of the Milano had many more rooms than it was supposed to. For instance, there was the empty cockpit he'd created when he'd fled from the psychotic child, but one level lower was an exact copy of the cockpit, only this one was occupied by memories of those nights spent talking with Gamora.

 _Huh, even my frickin' memories're neatly organized..._ he thought wryly.

Though he and Gamora differed slightly on the definition of 'neatly'. To her, _neat_ meant "put away and out of sight" where Rocket's version of neat was more along the lines of "having everything so I know exactly where to find it and within easy reach", which wasn't necessarily the same as out of sight.

So he was extra careful to avoid any doors that seemed to go to places that didn't exist aboard the Milano. Especially if they had little glass slits high up where only a humie would be able to see through and labels that he couldn't read. He figured those all led to memories from before he'd actually learned to read.

He passed by the common area – one of the many common areas – and came across a memory of Quill teaching Gamora to dance while an energetic little Groot sapling danced behind their backs, thinking no one could see him. Rocket was considering stepping into the fond memory when he became aware of fingers roughly groping his ear.

For a disorienting moment, he could see both the dream world, Quill twirling Gamora as gently as if she were made of glass, and the real world, golden bars shifting in and out of focus as Rocket blinked drowsily in his fever-wracked body. It seemed he was coming out the effects of the red honey.

Instantly, he was resentful that he was forced to come back to this cramped little prison and the constant pain in his ribs when he could have been with his friends, even if they were only a memory. He let out an angry growl as she rubbed his ear with those icy fingers of hers.

"Oh, little Rocket," she sing-songed, tugging cruelly at his sensitive ear, "your friends are here..."

Eyes wide, he tried to focus on her face, search her eyes to see if she was lying. Instead, she opened up her mind to him and he saw what she saw. She flew at the head of an entire swarm, thousands of enormous bees, charging like warhorses, straight for the orange and blue ship entering the atmosphere.

 _Looks like I won't have to erase them from your memories after all..._ she thought at him with a vacant grin. _I'll just destroy them._

Through her dizzying, multi-faceted point of view, Rocket saw insect legs latch on to the Milano and rip pieces off as though it was nothing but a shiny toy. He could see Drax butchering bees left and right. Even the stupid bounty hunter was helping to fight off the insects, wielding Quill's baseball bat of all things. The witch girl winced each time one of her bees died, but she kept sending them anyway. Rocket saw Gamora, fighting to reach Quill, who was struggling in the grasp of one of the attackers.

 _Shall we split him in half, little Rocket?_ she teased and he could see the distress on Peter's face as the monster suddenly applied more pressure to its hold on its squirming captive.

" _Peter_!" he could barely make out Gamora's desperate cry through the insect monster's distorted hearing. She wasn't going to reach Quill in time.

He could stop this.

He could save his family.

She could only do so many things at once, right? If he managed to disrupt her control of the bees, he could save Peter. If he could distract her long enough, they had a fighting chance... It was either save his family and risk losing his memories, or save his memories and risk losing his family. Rocket had less than a second to consider his choice, but found that he'd already decided.

 _The cage is safe. Don't leave it. Stay here,_ he reminded himself once more before taking the plunge.

With Gamora's warning still echoing at the back of his mind, he threw caution to the wind and opened his consciousness up to the evil child standing over him, bared his vulnerable little ball of self and allowed her to reach out and pull him in.

She gasped in pleasure as she realized what Rocket was doing. A little bit of drool slipped down her chin as Rocket let her reel him in. She forgot all about directing the monster bees attacking his friends. The giant insects scattered like a bag of feathers opened in the wind, but she didn't care. All she could see, all she could think about, was the exposed creature she held in her grasp.

Greedily, she pulled him down, down into her mind. Into her soul. Into a dark, mad kingdom, where he was at her mercy. It was like being submerged in thick, black tar.

 _The cage is safe. Don't leave it. Stay here,_ he chanted one last time.


	17. Search and Rescue

**Author's Note:** **I'm very sorry about the long pause between updates. Life happened by the bucket-load, but Rocket is still my one true love, so here you go!**

* * *

 _I should have told Gamora to put on some action music…_ Peter Jason Quill thought belatedly as he and Drax leapt through the smoking crater the Milano's main cannon had left in the castle wall. But she would probably have rolled her eyes at him and he didn't really want that in front of the bounty hunter dude. Might give him ideas about Peter's leadership skills and maybe cause him to come up with an ill-advised escape attempt.

That was the last thing they needed right now. Besides, between Drax and Gamora, any such attempt would invariably lead to the man's demise. Not that Peter would miss him – the guy was an asshole – but he _had_ helped them find this place.

The important thing right now was finding Rocket and bringing him home. With his mission in mind, Peter stepped into the next hallway. Almost immediately, a pair of robotic sentries lurched to life and moved to block their path, but, laughing maniacally all the way, Drax disposed of them through brute force.

" _Keep moving east_ ," Gamora's voice instructed through his headset. She was their eye in the sky and, frankly, the best candidate for piloting _and_ guarding their prisoner, who had meekly strapped himself into the co-pilot seat under their assassin's watchful gaze. " _There's a tower in that wing that looks like it could be the place from the visions._ "

"Roger," Peter replied, nodding to Drax and following her directions.

Gamora was very secretive about these 'visions', as she called them, but ever since that last cry for help from Rocket, the day they finally caught up with the bounty hunter and Mantis had to put her to sleep to keep her from killing Peter, their green assassin had been suffering from nightmares. Peter had asked her if she thought she was still somehow 'connected' to Rocket, but she'd simply smiled sadly with a shake of her head. Wherever they came from, if the visions helped them find Rocket, Peter wasn't about to disregard them.

It was not long until they found a darkened passage lined with windows, their curtains drawn closed. Peter sent Gamora the video feed from his helmet and she gasped in his ear.

" _That's it!_ " she exclaimed. He could feel his heart pumping faster at her confirmation and he took off running. " _Down the hall and to your right!_ "

A silhouette at the end of the hall slowed Peter's steps with caution. But instead of more robotic sentries, a lone man was approaching. His skin was pale lavender in colour. His complexion held not a single crease, but his pale grey eyes seemed to belong to a man centuries old. He turned his cold, hard gaze on the intruding Guardians.

"I suppose you've come to rob me," he said in a calm, gentlemanly manner.

"We're just here for Rocket," Peter declared dramatically. He was about to turn away, then changed his mind, turned back, pointed a finger at the man and added: "And don't try and stop us!"

The man's perfectly smooth forehead barely furrowed as he frowned. There was a slight sheen of sweat covering his brow and his eyes stood suspiciously still in his head. He licked his lips nervously.

"Look, if you're mercenaries... I don't know what they told you you'd find here," he began, "but beyond that door is something that can kill you with a single thought; a weapon of mass murder, a weapon that answers to me and only me. I am the only one who can—"

"It's a distraction!" Drax shouted. "He is wasting time with all his words!"

"What are you doing?" the man shouted, the skin on his face refusing to crease despite his near apoplectic expression. "I order you to stop!"

But the tattooed warrior was already ripping the door off its hinges. Peter was surprised to see that, behind the heavy wooden door, a second door – a thick, metal thing that reminded him of the blast doors on a nuclear bunker – was already sliding down. Without hesitation, Drax threw himself under the closing blast door and, muscles bulging, held it open with both hands. It looked like something out of a superhero movie.

Drax gave a nod and Peter slipped past him and into the room, the man in the hall protesting all the while.

The way the guy, Timmy's uncle, if he was who Peter thought he was, was carrying on, he expected to be hit by a murderous wave of psychic power the moment he stepped through the opening, but nothing of the sort happened. In fact, the only thing that assaulted him as he crossed the threshold was the unhealthy smell that permeated the air. The windows, though sealed now by sheets of the same metal as the blast door, had stood open, but that hadn't done much to clear the closed, stuffy smell of illness, sweat and raccoon urine.

He glanced at the figure sitting slumped on the majestic four-poster bed, still half-expecting to be attacked, but the girl was oblivious to his presence, smiling emptily at nothing, a strand of drool dangling from her chin.

"Myra, what are you waiting for? Destroy the intruders!" the fountain of youth reject commanded from out in the hall. "Listen to Daddy!"

Myra's only response was the pupil of her strange, red, mechanical eye twitching up and down while that of its organic, reddish brown counterpart stood stock still. It looked decidedly freaky. Seriously, she could star in her own horror film. Dismissing the creepy child and her deranged dad from his mind, Peter let his eyes be drawn to the elaborate golden cage, suspended from the ceiling, hanging in the middle of the room.

Inside was Rocket.

Peter retracted his helmet and stepped forward, his jaws clenched until he thought his teeth might crack. The once energetic fluff-ball of bravado that was his little raccoon friend looked a shadow of his old self. His fur was matted, his ears limp. The tight-fitting pants and top he was wearing only emphasized how emaciated he looked. They clearly hadn't been feeding him properly since the day he was taken. Though his normally snowy muzzle was stained pink by a sort of jelly, some of it crusted on his usually squeaky-clean whiskers, Peter doubted that whatever Rocket had been given contained sufficient nutrients to sustain him.

Aside from really hurting the bastards who had done this to his friend, all Peter wanted to do at that moment was gather the little guy in his arms and comfort him. Rocket didn't handle invasion of his personal space well, however, and captivity hardly would have improved this. So, instead, Peter opened the door of the cage – it wasn't even locked! What the hell had they been drugging him with if the cage stood unlocked? – and called out softly to his friend.

Rocket looked up warily, button nose testing the air. His eyes seemed bleary, but aware.

"Hey, bud," Peter urged, "it's time to blow this popsicle stand!"

His heart ached at the confused stare he got in response. The raccoon's little claws curled tightly around the bars at the back of the cage where he was cowering.

"Rocket?" he tried again. "C'mon, man, let's go home."

"…home?"

The droopy ears perked up ever so slightly and there was a glimmer of hope in his friend's hazy eyes.

"Yeah, buddy," Peter replied, his own eyes brimming. Unable to contain his protective instinct any longer, he carefully reached a hand into the cage. "Let's get out of here."

But he froze as sudden panic sparked in the raccoon's eyes and the small hands tightened their hold on the bars. Rocket shook his furry head. Teardrops spattered as he shook his head from side to side more and more urgently.

"C-can't!" he stammered. "Can't…!"

"Sure you can, Rocket," Peter insisted softly. "Look, the door is open. You're free."

"Can—Can't!" the little guy hiccupped. When he finally looked up, he was staring through Peter as though he did not see him. "S-S-S-Safe here."

Peter stretched out his hand to stroke the distressed raccoon's forehead. Though he did not pull away, Rocket screwed his eyes shut and trembled visibly as the large fingers of the human hand barely brushed his fur. Peter bit back a curse at the heat radiating from the raccoon's head. He was delusional with fever, definitely, but he was alive and he was within arm's reach, no longer just somewhere out there.

"Oh, what have they done to you, Rock?" Peter murmured under his breath.

And it was only as he gently ran his hands over the little guy's soft fur that Peter realized he'd genuinely believed that, this time, they would never see Rocket again. And what about Rocket? All this time as a captive, had he known without a doubt that the Guardians would come for him? Or had he, too, begun to lose hope? It was painful to think about.

"I'm so sorry we couldn't get here sooner..." he whispered huskily.

"Quill," Drax's voice spoke up from behind, "you had better hurry. That man left. I am certain he has gone to fetch reinforcements."

Peter turned around and gave a start. He had completely forgotten that Drax was still using his bare hands to keep the blast door from sliding shut and effectively trapping them in this room. He was speechless, but only for a moment.

"Drax, what do we do about Rocket? I-I don't wanna force him…" Peter protested.

His friend had been through enough already. In this disorientated state, to be manhandled, by his friends of all people, was the last thing he needed.

"If he does not wish to leave the cage, why not take it with us?" the Destroyer suggested casually, a vein popping in his forehead the only evidence that the full weight of a big metal door and all the force of the mechanisms driving it were bearing down on him.

"But—"

And then it hit him that it wasn't at all a bad idea. Handling Rocket now would be dangerous. There was no telling how he would react or whether he had any injuries they could not see. Plus they would probably have to haul some serious ass if that crook returned with a robot army at his back.

" _Peter, what's the situation?_ " Gamora's voice crackled over the communicator clipped to his ear. " _Is Rocket… okay?_ "

"We found him," he answered, cringing inwardly at all the detail he was leaving out. It was better for her to see for herself, though. "We're getting the hell outta here. Meet us down the hall!"

" _Got it!_ " came her prompt reply.

"Sorry about this, Rocket," Peter sighed before closing the cage door.

He fired up his boot jets, propelled himself up to the ceiling and carefully unhooked the chain holding up the cage. His throat tightened at the anxious squeak coming from below. Gently, he lowered first the cage and then himself to the floor.

Gritting his teeth, he squeezed past Drax, with the cage carefully held out in front of him, all the while trying to shake the horrible image of the heavy door slamming down on them if he accidentally so much as nudged the Destroyer. But Drax was hardly breaking a sweat when he climbed out from under the door and let it fall with a very final-sounding _clang_.

They made it no more than ten steps out into the hallway when the thunderous roar of an engine big enough to belong on a tank sounded behind them. When he'd noted earlier that the halls were wide enough to drive a truck through, he never imagined the castle's owner actually doing so. While the metal monstrosity lumbering after them on conveyer treads wasn't exactly a truck, the whole situation was just as absurd.

 _Seriously!?_ Peter thought incredulously as he risked a glance over his shoulder.

The thing chasing them was a robot as tall as the rafters, equipped with enough heavy weaponry to make Rocket drool if he was in any state to appreciate it. As it was, their charge was huddled at the back of his cage with eyes squeezed firmly shut, shaking so badly it seemed that the cage itself should have been rattling.

"Do we fight it?"

Drax's deference startled Peter. Under any other circumstances, the Destroyer would have started destroying immediately, no questions asked. Peter had, in fact, already begun working on contingency plans for getting away when the fight started, so he was almost at a loss for a reply when suddenly faced with other options.

"I'll slow it down," he instructed, "you take Rocket and run!"

He was reluctant to pass his precious burden to the muscled maniac, but it made sense – Drax was physically the stronger of the two and would be able to cover more ground, even encumbered with the cage.

"We've got a major bogey incoming, Gamora. Gonna need some air support!" Peter announced into his communicator.

" _Hang on, Peter, I'm almost there,_ " she responded quickly.

Peter had to admit, it felt good to see his crew following orders without picking them apart first for a change. For once, everyone on this diverse team had the same priority.

As Drax set off running, Peter pivoted, pulled his blasters and aimed a cheeky grin at the massive robot coming his way. He pushed the voltage levels on his weapons to maximum and fired a bright arc of electricity at the oncoming threat. The great big bucket of bolts stalled and spluttered for all of three seconds, then seemed to reboot. It resumed its deadly approach, weapons locking on targets. Hoping to buy them more time, Peter quickly fired off another bolt, but this time, an energy shield popped up in front of the robot, effectively blocking the shot.

"Damn learning AIs..." Peter cursed, casting about the hall nervously. "How's that evac coming, Gamora?"

He could hear the whine of the thing's weapons charging up. Frantically, he glanced down the hall to see if Drax had managed to get out of range with Rocket.

"Gamora? _Now_?" he called out desperately.

A thrill of triumph rushed up Peter's spine at the sight of his ship bursting through the wall, main cannons blazing, reducing the mechanical monster to nothing but a large pile of scrap metal.

" _I would have been here sooner,_ " she apologized as she brought the Milano in closer for pickup, " _but their anti-air turrets suddenly came online._ "

"Never mind," Peter replied, hopping aboard as soon as Drax was safely inside with Rocket, "that was the best dramatic entrance I've seen in a long time. We'd look great in a movie."

Her resigned sigh brought a smile to his lips.

" _Get up here_ ," she said seriously, " _you need to fly us out of this._ "

That was as close to complimenting his piloting skills as she ever got.

"Sure thing, beautiful," was his playful response. She didn't say anything, but he could just imagine her rolling her eyes.

* * *

With her heart in her throat, Gamora watched as Drax deftly used the trauma shears to cut away the filthy black shirt and pants Rocket had been dressed in. For such a large, burly man, he was unexpectedly gentle. She supposed with a fond smile that this was a rare glimpse of his nurturing, fatherly side, completely at odds with his role as Destroyer. It was not lost on her that Rocket tended to bring out these qualities in Drax more regularly, as though being able to care for someone small and in need filled a void in the big man's soul.

Taking in the panting raccoon lying on the medical bed, Gamora wondered with a pang if his ribcage had always been so prominent.

"His temperature is too high," Drax muttered, the glow of the red numbers on the ship's thermometer reflecting on his face and blending with the vivid colour of his tattoos. "Med bay detects two badly fractured ribs, with severe bruising around the others. Bacteria built up in the lungs. Also dehydration, coupled with dangerously high blood sugar levels."

"Damn it," Gamora hissed. While Drax prepared the IV, she grabbed a bottle of water from the first aid station and held it to Rocket's muzzle. "Here, Rocket, drink some water."

But the shiver-wracked raccoon had his half-lidded eyes fixed on the ceiling, not even acknowledging her presence. His hot breath was fogging against the clear plastic of the bottle in front of him, but he made no move to drink. With a vexed _tisk_ , Gamora unscrewed the cap on the water bottle and dipped two slender green fingers into the cool liquid inside. She dribbled some water between his dark lips, where the droplets met an unyielding wall of clenched teeth. She wet her fingers again and repeated the process. After about the fourth try, Rocket finally unclenched his jaw and began licking her hand. His lapping tongue felt unhealthily warm against her skin.

Once he started, he seemed unable to stop himself. When Gamora moved to put more water on her fingers, he gripped her hand tightly in his small ones. His claws were pinpricks that very nearly broke the skin. As he sucked on her fingers like a starved kit, she noted that the inside of his mouth, too, was much too warm indeed. Taking advantage of the overheating raccoon's desperate suckling, Gamora used her free hand to pour more of the water over her occupied one. Rocket gasped and coughed a bit at the cold, but swallowed and quickly returned to his suckling with renewed vigour, whining and purring drunkenly by turns.

Gamora finished pouring more water over the hand Rocket was latched on to, just to make sure he took in as much of the cool fluid as possible, then set the bottle aside in favour of scratching his head tenderly.

Seeing her friend in such a wretched state threatened to awaken the cold, hard rage that was always within her, the shadow of her soul. But she focused all of her energy on keeping that anger at bay, just in case Rocket could still sense her emotions, like he had that time down in the waterways. She still felt guilty about that – he'd thought her ire had been for him, when all she had wanted was to hold him close and protect him.

"You will need to take your hand away now," Drax warned her, his tone all business as he stood just out of Rocket's line of sight with the syringe.

Gamora inclined her head in thanks. Rocket was pretty much guaranteed to start fighting at the sight of a needle, even at the best of times. The last place she would want her fingers was within reach of those vicious teeth of his. Apologetically, she rescued her hand from the thirsty raccoon's maw. He lapped blindly at the air for a bit, whining in faint little half-whimpers, before dropping his head and returning to staring at the ceiling. He strained uselessly with his legs, as though his feeble kicking could somehow get him away from the heat inside of him.

With Gamora's fingers safely out of the way, Drax approached. Rocket hadn't seemed aware of anything around him before, but now his eyes instantly locked on to the needle and tube in the Destroyer's hand. Instead of the panic attack Gamora had been bracing for, though, the sick raccoon's ears wilted and, except for the uncontrollable tremors coursing through his body, he went completely still.

"...lease don' fix me," he mumbled in a lost little voice that sounded child-like compared to the rough tones she was used to hearing from him. He blinked profusely and tried in vain to sit up, babbling incoherent half-sentences all the while. "...fixin' hurts... fully operational... don' need fix—fixin'..."

She shared a stunned look with Drax before nodding at him to insert the IV.

Rocket flinched as the needle slid under his skin. The pain and fever meds went to work steadily. He was still trying to convince them that he was "fit for testing" and how he "didn't need fixing" as he drifted off into a drug-induced sleep, his last sentence about being "safe inside the cage" trailing away unfinished.

For a moment, the two of them stood staring at their lost and found little team mate. Gamora's eyes then wandered over to the hideous golden cage, pushed into the corner and out of the way.

"Peter said he didn't want to leave the cage," Gamora ventured. "How did you…?"

"I gave him a tranquilizer shot," Drax explained, shifting his broad shoulders uncomfortably. "At first I thought I could simply pull him out. I did not injure him, but… he… cried out like… like…"

Gamora sensed the tension in Drax's muscles before it even became visible. She placed a hand on his shoulder. The big man's hands curled into fists at his sides and he swallowed hard before trying again.

"It reminded me…" he spoke up, slowly, the raw hurt in his voice making it clear that he was reliving a tragedy from the past, "…of a frightened child being separated from their family."

She was silent for a while, reverent of her companion's pain. Then she took Drax's hand in hers and ran his fingers through Rocket's grimy fur. They could get him cleaned up when he was more stable, she thought absently.

"He may not have realized it yet," she said finally, "but he's home."

"Yes," Drax agreed sombrely. Gamora could feel the tension gradually seeping out of him. "He is home."

* * *

Peter sat on Rocket's bed, his hand resting on the sleeping raccoon's head as he whiled his shift away in time to his mom's favourite tunes. Well, technically it was Drax's bed. Rocket's own room aboard the Milano was way too cramped. They'd moved their little patient out of the sick bay as soon as his fever broke – Rocket was bound to wake up disoriented and they didn't want the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes to be the inside of a medical ward.

Rocket was doing a lot better than when they first rescued him. He was breathing more easily, despite his damaged ribs, thanks to pain medication, and the pneumonia was being handled by the med bay's prescribed antibiotics.

Groot sat growing quietly in his pot in the corner. He didn't seem to be doing anything, but Peter would have sworn the sapling was secreting some sort of healing spores into the air. There was no way to ask him, of course. Even if Groot had been able to talk by now, Peter couldn't understand him anyway. Still, he was sure the little plant was doing _something_ , because Peter always found himself feeling inexplicably revitalized at the end of a long shift of watching over Rocket. Typical selfless Groot – instead of concentrating on getting better himself, he was doing everything in his power to see Rocket up and about again.

The dim lights flickered a bit, evidence that Gamora was working on fixing the ship. The repairs to the Milano's hull was a slow-going business. Those overgrown bees had really done a number on her armour plates and they weren't going anywhere without sufficient hull integrity. Some of the emergency shielding _had_ survived the attack, but he wasn't taking any chances. It would be like driving through the thickest fog with only your hazard lights on.

They hadn't rescued Rocket just so they could all suffocate together in deep space.

The main problem wasn't the sheer damage done to the plates. They even had all the necessary parts and equipment to fix everything – the first thing Rocket had done when he took over the position as the crew's engineer was give Peter a piece of his mind about the lack of materials on board along with an extensive list of parts and tools to acquire. It had cost Peter a lot of units, but he'd humoured the testy raccoon. He'd reasoned that it would be a healthy habit for Rocket to take his job so seriously. A happy engineer tended to build less bombs than a frustrated one, after all...

No, the main problem wasn't parts either. The main problem was that Mr Big Bad Robots, who happened to own the entire planetoid they were currently marooned on, was still mad at them for busting into his castle. His robot scouts were scouring the area for the Guardians and Peter reckoned he wasn't just looking to give them a going away present.

Sitting there scratching Rocket's head absently, Peter pondered the situation. From every possible angle, getting the ship space-worthy seemed to be their only option.

They couldn't really call in any favours, Nova, Ravager or otherwise, because all outward communications were actively being blocked. Peter figured there had to be jamming devices installed on top of those big invisi-engine things that camouflaged the planetoid. Whether it was a money-making scheme or something else they'd stumbled upon, the guy in charge really didn't want anyone discovering their no doubt less than legal operation.

So the Guardians were forced to use as little power as possible to keep chances of detection to a minimum and they worked on the ship around the clock. For anyone who wasn't watching over Rocket, their entire world was repairs and nothing else. Even Cassidy, the bounty hunter, had been roped into helping, though he wasn't trusted near Rocket, obviously. _He_ wanted to get off this rock alive as much as the rest of them, after all.

Their ingenious hideout at the moment was the inside of an abandoned bee hive the size of a shopping mall. The cavernous wax structure was hollow and spooky, with neither a bee nor a drop of honey to be found. Peter wasn't sure exactly what had happened, but apparently the giant bee monsters that used to live here had lost interest in the planet as soon as whatever was controlling them let go. Hopefully they weren't coming back any time soon. That would be the cherry on the cake...

As the last verse of _The Piña Colada Song_ drew to a close, Peter reached down to flip the cassette in his walkman and blinked. He could have sworn he saw Rocket's whiskers twitch the moment he took his hand away.

"Rocket...?" he called softly.

The raccoon's eyelids fluttered and his breathing picked up. Was he waking? Uncertainly, Peter let his hand hover a hair from touching the furry head. Those dark eyes opened slowly. The button nose moved up and down as he sniffed the air. He opened his mouth and Peter was taken aback by the unexpected chirrup that greeted his ears.

"D-Did you just say what I thought you said?" he gasped.

Rocket's ears swivelled, then fell flat against his head. He launched into a range of aggressive chittering sounds, his back arched and his coat puffed out, trying to make himself look bigger. A cold fist of dread gripped Peter's insides as he watched his friend scamper rather gracelessly off the bed to hide under it. His modified skeleton no longer really allowed for the completely feral movements the scared mammal was instinctively trying to make. He didn't seem to know _what_ he was anymore and somehow that made Rocket seem all the more broken in Peter's eyes.

After a full minute of sitting there, dumbfounded, listening to the sound of raccoon claws trying to tear an escape path through the metal floor and that of his own heart trying to hammer itself out through his ribcage, Peter finally activated his communicator.

"Um... Gamora, can you come down here for a second? It's... kinda urgent." **  
**


	18. Handle With Care

When Peter had last left Gamora in Drax's room with their traumatized patient, Rocket still hadn't come out from underneath the bed. Peter had wanted to stay, to try and coax the little guy out of there – just to make sure he was all right – but nothing he'd tried was working. Eventually, the assassin had shooed him from the room. She'd sat herself down cross-legged, calm as you please, against the opposite wall, an air of serenity surrounding her as she began to meditate.

The door had slid closed and Peter's last glimpse of Rocket was a pair of glinting eyes peering after him from the shadows under Drax's bunk.

That image stayed with him all day long as he worked on the hull repairs, practically on autopilot. He'd been so out of it that, once, the bounty hunter had had to save him from welding his own fingers. That near-catastrophe did its part in breaking him out of his trance, but every time he thought of those wild raccoon eyes, his gut froze over anew. What if Rocket had lost his mind permanently? What if his crazy little best friend truly was gone forever?

So now, at the end of Gamora's watch, it was with trepidation that Peter opened the door to check on the pair. He was pretty much taken aback when he found the raccoon draped languidly across the green woman's knees like a purring scarf.

The assassin looked like she hadn't moved a muscle in the hours since he'd gone, but… was that a snatch of gentle humming he'd caught as he opened the door? It might have been his imagination, but Peter didn't think so. Either way, he studiously ignored it – the lullaby had been meant for Rocket's ears alone. He knew about the implicit bond of mutual trust between woman and raccoon. Despite the slight prickle of jealousy it sparked in the back of his mind, Peter was very grateful for that bond right now. Rocket didn't seem to recognize anyone in his current state, but maybe, on some primal level, he remembered _that_ , at least.

Upon entering the room, Peter immediately crouched down on his haunches. His grandpa had taught him, what seemed a hundred years ago, that if you ever needed to approach a frightened animal, your best bet was to make yourself as small and non-threatening as possible. Gamora nodded her approval and beckoned him closer.

"Think of something safe and warm," she instructed in a hushed voice, smooth as silk. She nodded toward the chair, where her discarded jacket hung from the arm rest. "There's a packet of sugar jellies in the pocket. Try offering him some."

Despite being vaguely surprised at discovering that Gamora carried sweets around in her pockets, Peter did his best to focus on the warmest feelings he could find that didn't include the pang of nostalgia many of his happy memories were tinged with. Anything that included a hot space chick wouldn't do either, he supposed, so he settled for concentrating on a very old memory of sitting under a blanket, curled up on the couch with his favourite comic book, the sound of the rain pattering against the windows filling his ears.

Rocket did not react – in fact, he looked more like he was asleep – and it was probably silly to expect him to. He did not move… right up until Peter touched the sweets. At the rustling of the sugar jellies wrapper, one fluffy ear perked up immediately. Peter couldn't help but smile as the button nose came up, twitching in curiosity. Rocket made no move to climb out of Gamora's lap, however. He eyed Peter up and down as he approached, still crouching low, but allowed the human to come closer without scuttling back to his hiding place under the bed.

Peter noted that the raccoon wasn't wearing any clothes yet, something the Rocket he knew would not have tolerated for a minute.

He eyed the bedside table.

During one of their fuel stops on the way to round up the bounty hunter, Gamora had up and disappeared, without so much as a note. The fairly successful halfway station between one planet and the next was safe enough, but you never could know when another head hunter would come calling, especially with a group like theirs, so, naturally, Peter had been worried. It had been one of the longest half an hours of Peter's life.

But when Gamora returned with a victorious almost-smile and a diminutive yellow jumpsuit, complete with a convenient slit for a tail, fingerless gloves and a cool hoodie that even included ear-space, the reprimand Peter had had ready stayed stuck in his throat and he let it slide.

The bundle of new clothes still lay untouched on the bedside table, exactly where she'd left them.

Peter reached out to the raccoon tentatively. Even naked as he was, he looked just like good old Rocket; a genius explosives enthusiast inhabiting the body of a furry woodland creature. Peter kept expecting the little guy to suddenly make a snarky comment and then act all indignant about them treating him like a pet.

But instead, the little raccoon closed his eyes and leaned into the touch as Peter scratched tenderly under his chin, another thing the Rocket he knew would never have done. Oh, he _might_ have enjoyed it a little bit if he could but allow himself to, but certainly never so openly.

There was another difference that bothered Peter, though. Something beyond Rocket acting like an animal. Something he couldn't quite place, until he held the handful of treats out to the hungry raccoon: it was his friend's eyes, always darting, always wary of a hidden trap, that were not the same.

In his state of not knowing, his eyes were big and round and filled with curiosity. He looked… innocent, even child-like. The raccoon gave a few interested sniffs before snatching the sugar jellies from Peter's hand with both paws and promptly stuffing them into his mouth, chewing happily. Not once did he show even the slightest hint of suspicion. Peter felt a lump rising in his throat.

"Kzrrrrrt?" the little raccoon trilled eagerly as the wet nose checked Peter's palm for more sweets.

When it became apparent that there was no more to be had, he lounged back in Gamora's lap and resumed purring.

Peter plopped down on the floor next to Gamora, watching his furry friend snuggle up to the deadliest woman in the galaxy. Gamora didn't often show this type of thing on her face, but she seemed happier than he'd seen her in quite some time.

Peter found that he could not join her in her happiness. Any relief he'd felt at saving Rocket from that wretched place had been quickly overshadowed by this mysterious state his friend was in. He didn't want to imagine what Rocket must have gone through, why he wouldn't talk, why he didn't even seem to recognize anyone. He couldn't help wondering if, had they had been quicker, found Rocket just a bit sooner, things would not have gone as far as they had, if maybe his friend would still be himself instead of just a fuzzy animal.

The unfairness of it all chafed at him. How bitter it felt, getting Rocket back only to lose him a second time.

Sure, Rocket was loud and rude and more than a little OCD, but so what if he second-guessed Peter's every decision and insulted everything from his taste in music to his personal hygiene on a daily basis? Peter just wanted his friend back. Hell, he even missed arguing with the jaded little dude. Rocket was no saint, certainly, but he was _family_.

Watching that distant smile forming on Gamora's lips as she stroked the furry head, Peter held on to the fact that their mismatched little group was finally back together. Even though Rocket was not himself, he was no longer in the clutches of a mad child. He was safe and surrounded by his friends. The thought was almost enough to lighten Peter's heart.

For a while, he let his mind drift to his childhood and the pretty little lies adults tell kids to soften life's hard truths, as if such cold comforts could delay the inevitable or somehow make them less ugly or final. Visions of hospitals and their hollow assurances came back to haunt his thoughts.

That was when he felt the feather light touch of tiny fingers on his arm.

When he looked up, he was shocked to find Rocket staring directly into his eyes. There was a deep, longing sadness in those dark raccoon eyes. Afraid to blink, Peter watched Rocket search his eyes. He did not sniff with his nose, nor did he probe with his whiskers. He was _staring_ , and it almost looked like he wanted to say something, but couldn't find the words.

The moment was shattered when Drax called from outside: "Quill, you have to come now!"

Instantly, the skittish raccoon retreated, eyes round with fright and confusion, sinking back into Gamora's lap with down-turned ears.

"Dammit, Drax!" Peter groaned. " _Now_!?"

With a start, he realized that Rocket was trembling and resolved to lower his voice.

"It is of great importance," Drax's deep voice rumbled outside the door.

"Rocket was just—I mean I think he—" But the raccoon refused to look up again, hiding his face behind Gamora's knee. "What could be more important than reconnecting with Rocket?" Peter muttered, annoyed.

"Mantis has regained consciousness."

* * *

Peter was up and out of there before Gamora could formulate even half a sentence. He shut the door without a word, leaving her alone with her thoughts and the sound of Rocket's rhythmic purring starting up again.

She frowned. Peter had his jaw set in that way he often did when he was planning something he knew someone wasn't going to like. In this case, the most likely candidate was Mantis.

 _Stubborn_ , she thought fondly, but couldn't quite quell the bubble of apprehension forming in her middle. Peter so badly wanted to have Rocket back to normal and, while it was mostly a good thing that the man usually followed his heart rather than his head, Gamora dreaded that Peter just might be desperate enough to try something that would do more harm than good.

She looked down at the peaceful bundle nestled in her lap.

Though he was able to, he did not want to move around. His strange, "new" bone structure, modified for walking upright, seemed to frighten the wild raccoon part of his brain. After a few hours of patiently running her mind through basic meditation exercises, Gamora had switched tactics and begun concentrating on fond memories of her new family, the Guardians. To her surprise, the little raccoon had responded almost immediately, dragging himself out from under the bed by his elbows, his tail and rump held limp. He'd awkwardly crawled into her lap and stayed there for hours, kneading the material of her shirt and suckling her fingers.

Now, as Peter and Mantis argued in heated whispers outside the door, Rocket's ears pricked up. He raised his head and sniffed the air, whiskers trembling. He could sense the conflict and, if his elevated heart rate was any indication, it was upsetting him.

The door opened to admit the half-terran and the green telepath. Taking in Mantis' confident stride and stern expression, it was difficult to imagine that this woman had been in a coma for nearly a week.

"I'm not touching him, Peter Quill," she was saying as she stepped into the room.

"Look, I don't need you to pick around in his brain, that's not what I'm asking! He doesn't even have to know you were there…! I-I just wanted you to check if he didn't— if he could still— You know, if he's... _himself_...on the inside…" Peter finished sullenly, scuffing the toe of his boot against the floor like a little boy who got a scolding he knew he deserved.

"Peter Quill," Mantis replied firmly, arms crossed, antennae quivering, "anything, _anything,_ I do to interfere here _will_ result in your friend losing his way." For a moment, her knowing look twisted into one of pain, the look of someone who carried a great burden no one else could share. "Trust me…"

Gamora felt a pang of sympathy towards Mantis. She and the other woman had spoken about this at length. The theory was that the more you tried to change foreseen events, or warn people about them, the more you mangled the natural flow of all things, until you have disrupted them so badly that the very thing you have been trying to prevent comes to pass all the sooner and, according to Mantis, often bloodier. And while Gamora herself had never had the talent of clairvoyance, she knew what it was to keep dark, world-ending secrets from everyone she ever knew.

Peter's hands curled into fists, the frustration burning in his usually gentle, blue eyes. He did not understand. To him, Mantis' silence was a betrayal.

"If you know something, why can't you just _tell_ me already!?" he shouted finally.

And that was when Rocket did the most human thing Gamora had seen him do ever since waking; the raccoon twisted around in her lap to look directly in her eyes, a look of distress on his face.

Her mind was flooded with a blur of sensations. It was all jumbled, but it felt like a flash of hands tightening, or maybe a trap closing, mingled with an intense fear of losing something very important. It was over so quickly that she could easily have convinced herself that she'd imagined it.

 _What_ was _that?_ she wondered with a start.

Then Rocket bolted through the open door, confirming her theory that, though he did not _want_ to move, he certainly could, and was gone.

"Wh-What the?" Peter gasped. "Rocket, no—Aww, dammit, I gotta make sure he doesn't run into Cassidy!"

He stormed off in pursuit of Rocket.

"It is as I suspected," Mantis breathed, looking pale, "he still has some residual psychic capabilities left over from what he went through in there…"

Gamora wasn't sure _in where_ Mantis meant, exactly, but somehow she didn't think the woman was talking about the brick-and-mortar building they'd rescued him from. She climbed hastily to her feet. She steadied herself against the wall, head spinning from the strange vision, muscles stiff from sitting in the same position for hours.

"I know, because he just sent me a warning to stay away," Mantis answered her unvoiced question.

Gamora froze.

"He _spoke_ to you?" she asked sharply.

"It was more a mix of sensations and images," the telepath admitted, then cocked her head to one side and added: "but you already know what I mean, don't you, Lady Gamora?"

Gamora nodded mutely. Trying not to think very hard about where Mantis just found that particular bit of information, she pushed past the telepath with a murmured: "We better find him," and left.

* * *

Peter was cursing himself in every alien language he knew. Well, he didn't necessarily know the _languages_ , only the swearwords themselves, but, in all honesty, those were the most important words a guy could learn in any tongue. For example, it was a good way to tell that a deal's gone sour and the shooting is about to start.

He shook his head. How could he have been so stupid, making a big scene in front of the raccoon in his vulnerable state? At least none of the outer doors were open, so Rocket could not leave the ship… unless he reached one of the tears in the hull they were still working on repairing, Peter realized with a sick feeling gnawing at his gut.

Drax stepped into the hall with a sombre expression.

"I did not see the furred one anywhere on the upper deck," he reported, "but it is possible that he could be hiding."

"We have to keep looking," Peter replied and then paused.

Drax was frowning at him for stating the obvious, but he hardly noticed. Something was drawing him to the cargo hold, a gut feeling. It was the place where Rocket had had his first breakdown after the whole Brandt incident. It was also the first time the tough little critter had allowed himself to seek comfort from one of his team mates other than Groot. Could it be that, deep down, in Rocket's subconscious, that moment had made enough of an impact that he would run _there_ , if scared?

"You insist that we continue doing what we are already doing, and then you simply stand there," the disgruntled Drax remarked, still frowning. "We have no time for your 'sarcasm', Quill!"

"Yeah, about that…" Peter said, making placating motions with his hands, "wait here, but be ready to come at my signal."

"That sounds like a plan of action, at least," Drax grunted.

Peter ignored him. The setting was eerily familiar as he set foot inside the shadowy cargo hold. His hand automatically went for the lights switch, but he stopped himself short. No need to scare the raccoon by suddenly blinding him. One step at a time, he moved slowly deeper into the hold.

Sure enough, he could hear the soft, hitching breaths of someone trying to keep uncontrollable sobs from spilling out. His instinct to check behind the first pair of crates revealed nothing, however.

And then he saw him.

Peter was aghast at finding his friend's small form, wracked with barely suppressed sobs, hunched inside the golden cage. He hated seeing Rocket in a cage. They'd stowed the thing down here in the cargo hold, out of sight, hoping to dispose of it the next chance they got. Horror gave way to confusion; Rocket was free, why would he climb back into that hideous cage willingly? Was he experiencing some form of Stockholm syndrome? A nagging voice at the back of Peter's mind whispered that he shouldn't be so surprised, that this wouldn't be Rocket's first mental issue.

He squashed the little voice ruthlessly and crept nearer until he was just outside the cage.

When he finally got a closer look, his dread and confusion were replaced with understanding and admiration. Rocket, resourceful as ever, had ripped aside the bedding and was now trailing his little fingers over a crude drawing scratched into the bottom of the cage; it was little more than a set of stick figures holding hands, scrawled hurriedly, but certain details made it clear that they resembled Peter, Gamora, Drax, Groot and Rocket.

Below the drawing, the words " _DON'T YOU FORGET_ " were scored into the metal surface, the letters almost illegible in their urgency. For the first time, as the raccoon ran his hands along the outlines of the picture over and over, Peter noticed the broken tips of Rocket's nails. A few of them were torn off completely. Peter's insides clenched at the desperation Rocket must have felt at leaving that message.

At that moment, the raccoon looked up and as his wet eyes met Peter's, they lit up with recognition. Suddenly it was as if Rocket really saw the golden bars surrounding him for the first time. He lunged for the opening. Upon reaching the cage door, he slumped against the crossbar and held on, drained. The shock and the effort had sapped all of his energy.

"Pete," he squeaked in a tiny voice. He sounded so small, so lost, but Peter couldn't help smiling, because he was _talking,_ not making a series of animal chirps.

He was still _there_.

Peter leaned closer to help his friend out of the cage. He expected the usual gruff reaction of "Tell anybody about this and I flarkin' murder you", which was basically Rocket for "It's okay to comfort me now, I just gotta offer some token resistance for the sake of pride". Instead, the exhausted raccoon simply put up his arms for Peter to pick him up.

This was the tough son of a bitch who would rather walk for an hour with an injury than let himself be carried around – who wouldn't even admit that he was in fact hurt – so he wouldn't look weak, even if no one but the other Guardians were there to see. Seeing such an openly trusting gesture from Rocket threatened to snap Peter's heart strings clean off.

He blinked and caught himself before he could hesitate.

Rocket let out a few muted sniffles as Peter scooped him up and folded him into a protective embrace – secure, but not so tight as to be stifling. When the raccoon settled into his hold with a sigh, the side of his face pressed into Peter's shirt, he allowed himself to whisper: "You alright there, bud?"

The little critter's heart was thundering an unsteady drumbeat against his chest, but he exhaled loudly and curled in closer.

"Yer real, yer not _them_ , you ain't one of _them_ … You—" Rocket looked up into Peter's eyes again and snorted, a self-deprecating sound. "Haha, you'd make a lousy doctor, anyhow. Too frickin' soft."

He lowered his face and continued his strange, mostly random-sounding ramblings, hardly pausing for breath as he rattled on. His fluffy ears were folded back against his skull so tightly, they trembled. He sounded a bit crazy, but no more than usual, and he was back. He was himself again.

When Peter could finally tear his gaze away from the furry head, he saw Drax peering around the corner cautiously. The poor guy was probably still waiting on a signal, Peter realized and nodded belatedly.

Rocket craned his neck to see Drax over Peter's shoulder and rasped: "And yer not one of _them_ either, yer just you. Yer real too."

Gamora, who had either sensed that the crisis had passed or had simply come to search the cargo hold – it was impossible to tell with her, she sometimes seemed to know things she couldn't possibly know – came in carrying the Groot sapling in his pot and Rocket's eyes went big and round, like murky brown and black pools.

"Y-Yer not _them_ either," he mumbled and made as if to reach a hand out, to Groot or Gamora, Peter wasn't sure which, and then seemed to decide against it. "Yer my… Yer my f… My flarking people…"

As the other Guardians of the Galaxy knelt in a protective semicircle around them, Peter turned around so Rocket was at the centre of their huddle. Surrounded by his "flarking people", although Peter was sure he'd really only barely stopped himself from using the other f-word, his _family_ , Rocket looked up at their faces.

"Yer r-real…" he hiccupped, eyes glistening. "Yer really real…"

The group stayed like that for a while yet, sharing a long overdue family hug. Little Groot, who was barely more than a stick, had to lean forward in his pot to reach Rocket, but they managed it. After what Peter deemed a long enough silence, he spoke.

"Is there anything you need, buddy?" he asked, making a show of, you know, 'very _subconsciously'_ petting the raccoon. "Anything at all, you just name it."

Rocket stayed quiet for so long that Peter almost thought he wasn't going to answer.

"Cheeseburglar," the muffled reply came from the centre of their huddle.

"What?" Peter frowned.

"And my flarkin' clothes," the raccoon's gruff little voice elaborated, gaining strength as he went, "but, I could seriously do with some real food. So, cheeseburglar first…"

"You mean cheese _burger_ ," Peter corrected with a smirk.

"It's what I said, ain't it? You deaf, humie?" Rocket challenged in irritation, ears slanted at an aggressive angle, teeth bared as he looked up at Peter.

"Dude, I'm just trying to help!" Peter protested indignantly.

"Well then, shut yer stupid mouth!" Rocket retorted with venom.

The other Guardians stared as Peter and Rocket glared at one another. Then Peter's annoyed expression melted into a fond smile and he pulled the raccoon close once more.

"Welcome back, Rocky," he murmured, fingers carding gently through his friend's fur.

"Yeah, thanks…" Rocket said softly, relaxing back into the hug with a stuttering sigh.

* * *

Johan Hensley strode into Myra's room. It took all of his self-control not to stomp his feet like an angry child.

Stupid girl… _She_ was the one to blame for this mess, so _she_ would be the one to clear it up. He went about straightening his expensive winter grape (commoners would call it grey) suit and adjusting his tie until he was calm, and then turned to face his little abomination.

The shell of Myra was still sitting on the bed, staring at nothing like a breathing corpse, exactly the way he'd left her the day before. She hadn't eaten either – her plate sat ignored on the nightstand.

"Myra?" he cooed sweetly. "Myra, it's Daddy. Come on, Cupcake, it's time to go to work now. Wake up."

When she did not so much as blink, he drew back his arm and backhanded her across the face. She bounced, but did not even flinch.

"Oh well…"

It was a shame she'd stopped using the headset. It would have made this so much easier... Letting out a long-suffering sigh – one that he felt was well and truly justified – Hensley produced her mouth guard and placed it between her teeth with practiced ease. He took a few steps back before fishing out the pendant he always wore under his shirt, close to his skin.

He no longer saw the intricate designs carved into the pendant as it lay glimmering in his palm. The only thing he cared about anymore was the tiny button, hidden among the carvings. He pressed his thumb down on it ruthlessly.

The girl threw back her head and screamed. She fell off the bed and started convulsing the moment she hit the floor. Her heels drummed against the carpet as she writhed like a dying worm. Her screaming was like a pig being slaughtered. The shrieks grew shriller in pitch the longer he held down the button, until she could no longer make a sound, her face contorted in a silent scream.

When the vomiting started, he finally released the hard reset button. The girl stilled immediately.

"Good morning, Myra," he said, even though it was closer to noon, bending over her to remove the mouth guard.

She slowly stood and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Good morning, Daddy," she replied, as was their ritual.

Good. She was still functional after all, then.

"We have work to do, Cupcake—" he began, but the moment she raised her head to look at him, her eyes made him freeze.

She looked at him in a way she had never looked at him before. Something was _wrong_. Instead of vapid adoration and boundless worship, he found outrage and raw anger in her gaze as she stared at him now. The silence in which she studied him was deafening.

"Daddy…" she chuckled finally. "You're a liar, Daddy."

Images, operating table after blood-soaked operating table, flashed before his eyes.

"Now, Myra, Daddy was only helping you get better after the accident—"

"Shhh, don't lie, Daddy," she whispered with a wicked smile. "The truth is written all over your thoughts…"

"Y-You're scared and confused, darling," he supplied eagerly. "But don't worry. Daddy will fix it."

This had never happened before. He could practically feel her breezing through the wall of his surface thoughts like it was made of mist; layers upon layers of defences around his mental fortress, beautifully designed to distract and ensnare and keep her out _, and she simply brushed them aside_. This was impossible! She'd never before been able to see past the idyllic mirage he kept up for her at all times.

What had that wretched little raccoon-thing _done_ to her?

As if in answer to his question, he received a vision of the ring-tailed animal coming to a stop in front of a heavily boarded up door wrapped in chains and padlocks, trying to get in. Looking over its shoulder in panic, it reached up for the handle and somehow the chains simply fell away. The door swung open to flood the world with blinding light and the raccoon dashed inside.

The vision followed it.

Behind the door were a happy little orphan girl with her small white dog and a greed-filled man who didn't really care.

"YOU LIED!" she roared in an inhuman voice as her eyes flared red. "YOU PROMISED YOU'D MAKE ME BEAUTIFUL!"

"And you _are_ beautiful, Myra," he agreed vehemently, taking a step back, "y-you are! And Daddy loves you so much!"

But the vision continued.

After that, the raccoon kept on tearing open doors that were better left sealed up forever. Flashes of Aunt Marie's smiling face brought a tear to Johan's eyes. His dear sister had been such a fool, doting on the child like that. With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he realized the path the raccoon was following. _Stop it, you little menace, you're ruining everything!_ he wanted to shout as the creature flooded the vision with images of a past not so rosy, where Daddy was cruel and Aunt Marie gently kissed the tears away.

Finally, the raccoon discovered a door that managed to slow it down. Behind this door was a long line of surgeons and scientists leading up to an operating room. Hiding under the gurney in the corner, the raccoon sat beside the fluffy white pup and watched, trembling, as the operations began. Bright eyes darting, the intelligent animal studied the charts and computer screens monitoring the tiny patient strapped to the table.

The vision rocked as the truth was laid bare: the grisly operations had begun long before the day of the fateful car crash.

"Beautiful? Oh no," she laughed darkly, "I'm a monster now, and you're not my Daddy."

For the first time in a long time, Johan Hensley knew fear. She was malfunctioning. He had to shut her down. He pressed the button on the pendant and waited for her to collapse and restart.

"I'm a monster, I'm a monster, I'm a monster," she giggled in a sinister voice, her smile growing wider and wider until it seemed that her face would split in half.

Frantically, Hensley pressed the button again and again, to no avail.

He still had his thumb pressed down on the hard reset button when his head exploded.


	19. To the Very End

Rocket Raccoon slammed the service hatch shut with more force than was strictly necessary. He slipped the multitool he'd been using back into his tool belt firmly so it wouldn't drift away. He didn't really think it would, but the thing wasn't as hefty as it normally felt. Gravity was a bit funky up here.

He plopped down on the unnatural dirt covering the floating platform and took in the view. Though it was artificially constructed, the planetoid they were currently marooned on was lush with greenery and exotic, oversized flowers one would never expect to thrive on a man-made habitat. Well, the place _had_ been home to a colony of rare and dangerous bee-like aliens, after all. Insects tended to be good for an ecosystem.

At least, that's what he heard.

Sitting high above the world, looking down at how small everything looked from up here, Rocket caught himself wondering how long it would take for him to reach the bottom. Not in the pod he'd taken from the Milano to reach the hovering Invisidrape generator, but if he took a leap from solid ground into open air. He wondered if the wind rushing past his ears would feel exhilarating or terrifying, and if he would even be conscious to feel his body impact with the earth so far below. He wondered if maybe they wouldn't be able to put him back together again this time if the fall managed to break him into small enough pieces...

Rocket shook himself and licked his lips, suddenly appalled at how easily he'd imagined such a thing.

Someone put a hand on his and panic spiked. There was no one up here but him...! Suddenly, her hands were _everywhere_ and he couldn't breathe. He could not escape. She held him tight against her chest, crushing, crushing, _crushing_...!

His vision blurred black around the edges.

"—down, Rocket, just breathe," a familiar voice – not _her's_ – was talking softly in his ear.

A soft touch trailed along the side of his face.

Blinking away the haze, the still-shaking raccoon looked up and saw Gamora, a relieved almost-smile lighting up her usually stoic features.

"The frickin' hell you doin' up here, Green?" he huffed when he could reach his voice.

"I could ask you the same," she murmured, "They're still looking for us. You shouldn't be out here by yourself..."

And then he wished she was Quill, so he could yell at her and tell her to flark off. He could drown Peter Quill in wave upon wave of crushing verbal abuse and the very next day the crazy humie would just be calling him his best friend and doing that weird fist-bump thing of his again.

But not her.

He couldn't... didn't want to risk her friendship. Besides, he owed her too much already. And while Rocket Raccoon was notoriously irreverent when it came to incurring debt, money was a worthless thing easily acquired. Trust, on the other hand...

"I needed space," he grumbled finally.

He rolled his shoulders uncomfortably. A guy like him found this type of thing insanely frustrating. This thing with Gamora was... delicate. Not flower-delicate (never _that_!), but shattering-glass-delicate. And Rocket didn't do delicate. Well, unless it was wired to high explosives, obviously.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

For a full minute, he said nothing. He couldn't bring himself to lie right then and dredging up the truth would be equally bad. She frowned concern and he knew he had to say _something_.

"I feel like a total..." he began.

' _Waste of space_ ' was what he wanted to say. Despite all his bluster, he knew he was of utterly no use to anyone. And that never used to matter. He never used to think about these things too deeply. But now he had these people who were, if not exactly depending on him, expecting... _something_ from him. Did they want him to... what? Behave like a 'person'? He wasn't sure he _could_ , wasn't even really sure he _was_ a person...!

Besides, he was a whole lot more trouble than he was worth, and then some. Why the hell they still kept him around at all was a mystery.

"I feel," he amended, "useless..."

She was silent for a moment. A tiny frown showed itself as she mulled over whatever sage wisdom she was going to spout so she could magically make him feel better. Tall people seemed to think that talking solved everything.

"It's not about being of use, Rocket," she assured him. "You are one of us and we care for you."

"Don't gimme that!" he scoffed. "How can you care about a krutacking _thing_!? You dunno what I am. Hell, _I_ don't even know what I am. Just because I wear clothes," he fingered the new jumpsuit he was wearing, "and can talk, does that automatically make me—"

He clamped his jaws together before he could say more. He knew if he went further down this path, nothing but bitter and hateful things would come out. He shook his head and pulled at his ears. He realized that he was trembling. Shaking like a scared little kitten.

Over _nothing_.

 _Pathetic_.

The edge of the platform was right there, and the drop loomed before him.

 _I should just jump._

Suddenly, he was wrapped in her warmth.

"No, Rocket," Gamora's voice whispered fiercely in his ear as she hugged him to her chest, "you _are_ someone. You are a living, thinking _person_ and don't you dare think for one minute that no one will miss you. You are a part of us and you mean the world to us. To _me_."

Rocket could feel the astonished tears forming in the corners of his eyes, burning, threatening to blur his vision. She _meant_ it. She meant it so much that it _hurt_.

"Oh, Rocket, what did she do to you?" she breathed into his ear.

No doubt she could feel his tremors. The thought filled him with shame.

"Nothing!" Rocket snapped on impulse, knowing even as he did that she would not settle for such a reply. "I guess... she was turning me into her. And herself into _him_."

Gamora said nothing.

She did not understand. He did not expect her to. He suspected that his mind, though never really the most stable part of him, was irrevocably changed by all this mind voodoo he'd had to deal with these past days. Things that made perfect sense to him might not make sense in the real world at all anymore.

Rocket bit back a harsh laugh.

Funny, he would have imagined the prospect of going crazy would be a great deal scarier. Perhaps the fact that he couldn't bring himself to care was a sign of how far gone he already was...

"'Him' the father?" she asked and Rocket gave a start.

He had been certain that train of thought had wrecked somewhere along the line. He didn't trust his voice, so he nodded silently. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to soak up this moment. They stayed like that for... he wasn't sure how long. Minutes, hours, days? There was no realistic way for him to measure what was one of the _scariest_ yet most beautiful moments of his life.

"Come," she said after a while, holding out her hand, "we need to go back. Peter says he has a plan..."

She had a quirk to her mouth that told him she was on the verge of making some despairing comment, but wasn't sure if now was the appropriate time.

"Aww, hell," Rocket quipped in reply, "then we better get over there and fix it for him!"

That got him an almost-smile, at least. What surprised him was seeing that half-smile blossom into a full one when he decided to throw caution to the wind and take her hand.

* * *

Gamora had to admit, she was a tiny bit proud to see Rocket strutting around in the clothes she got him. The vibrant yellow of the fabric contrasted nicely with his dark fur and he hadn't complained once about the colour. He'd even taken a liking to the fingerless gloves, slipping them over his palms with an odd little smirk he seemed to think no one noticed. She pretended not to notice either. Rocket did not to wear the hood up, mostly because he tended to emote with his ears and it got in the way, but such a thing would be handy in colder climates. She was happy that she'd gotten the size just right, too; the new jumpsuit fit snugly around the raccoon's narrow chest and was just baggy enough around the waist and thighs that, once he managed to put on some weight again, it would fit perfectly.

He was parading about importantly, not, as it turned out, because he was showing off his new look, but because he'd managed to restore communications with that little stunt of his up on the maintenance platform.

"We still gotta fix up the ship ourselves, though," he concluded, tail swishing, "Nova Corps's still practically a week away."

The team had considered the option of contacting the Ravagers to ask for help. They were most likely closer than the Xandarian law enforcement, but Gamora was sure Peter still owed Yondu for that last favour, so she'd voted not to take any chances on that account and the others had agreed.

"Guess we better get to it, then!" Peter remarked cheerfully, rubbing his hands together. "By the end of this, I'll be able to seal hull plates with my eyes closed!"

"You'd best not do that, Quill," Drax cautioned seriously. "That filthy bounty hunter told me how he had to rescue you from using the blowtorch on your hand instead of the ship."

Gamora couldn't help but chuckle at Peter's face, especially when Rocket joined in to tease him loudly. Things were finally feeling back to normal, at least on the surface.

* * *

Rocket was tinkering furiously. He knew he should be working on the thing Quill wanted for fixing the hull faster. It was important. Priority number one, even.

But he wasn't working on the thing Quill had asked him for.

It was not like he was shirking his duties on purpose, though... While Rocket had been prepping the workbench for it, he was struck by an idea. It was not something he was likely to need any time soon – or ever, hopefully – but the idea nagged at him. His nerves screamed at him to _build it now_ because if he didn't, some really, really bad things were going to start happening.

He hated this.

It was like he didn't have control over his own hands because of that vicious itch in his brain. He _had_ tried ignoring such an impulse once... and woke up inside a Groot cocoon for his trouble, after what he was told was a night filled with biting, scratching and mayhem he did not remember.

So when he felt that pesky idea set his teeth on edge, he started _building_ , flark it!

He stopped humming when a sound that was not quite a sound yet, just beyond hearing threshold, pierced his brain. He clenched his jaw and pricked his ears, held his breath... but there was nothing. He started working faster, as though finishing this now would do any good. An icy touch at the back of his neck made his hair stand on end. He whirled around, chest heaving, the tool in his hand raised like a weapon.

There was no one.

Light-headed with relief, Rocket turned back to his work, and recoiled from his workbench with a start. The reflection in the smooth metallic surface was not his own. There she was, the hungry shadow with the red pinprick eyes, smiling a cruel smile that was wider than her face.

It couldn't be _her_. He'd left her trapped in her past. He'd left her in that lab with her long-deceased aunt and her dead dog to keep her company. He'd sealed that door shut, left it so she wouldn't _want_ to leave, and high-tailed it out of there.

But now...

"I missed you..." the reedy voice sing-songed in the back of his mind.

The beginnings of an angry headache stung his senses. His hackles prickled and his fur threatened to stand on end. What if someone had gone and opened that door?

He blinked and, just like that, she was gone.

His quaking legs gave way and he sagged against the table with a long, trembling breath. Resting his cheek against the cool metal surface, he closed his eyes. He was just stupid tired. Pete called it "PTSD", but Rocket suspected he meant the same thing, just with a fancier name. Anyway, that was all it was; he was so tired, he couldn't think straight, so tired that he was seeing things that weren't really there.

Whatever you ended up calling it, what he'd just seen had been nothing more than a wide awake nightmare. _Flark knows, I've had plenty of those..._

"There you are, sweetness!" _that voice_ cooed right by his ear.

Rocket's eyes popped open just in time to see _her_ reaching for him through the reflection in the workbench. The stinging ache behind his eyes launched into a brutal, all-out migraine. The metal of the table warped and bubbled as her long, pale fingers stretched out towards him. He tried yelling for help, but there was no air inside his lungs. He couldn't shout, couldn't even breathe as the air seemed to turn to jelly. He wanted to get up and run, but his legs wouldn't move.

"I seeeeee youuuuuu," she crooned and he could almost feel her ghostly fingers as they came closer, reaching, reaching.

He whimpered, trying in vain to back away, powerless to fight the monster in his reflection.

 _Slam!  
_  
The workbench rocked back and forth with the force of Mantis' flat-palmed strike. The thickness in the air lifted and suddenly Rocket could breathe again. He sat down hard and stared up at the telepath. She knelt briskly beside him, cupped his face in her hands and stared intently into his eyes. Antennae quivering, she searched him with that _other_ sense of hers. He had an inkling she could have done so just as easily with her eyes closed.

"She—She didn't get me," Rocket panted softly, "I think..."

After a long, uncomfortable silence, Mantis blinked once, then nodded her satisfaction. She released his head and placed a single slender finger over the tip of his nose.

"I have raised a ward around the ship," she told him seriously. "It will not hide us from her, not with those droids hunting us, but it will prevent her from following you straight here."

"Delaying the inevitable," he snorted harshly.

"Playing for time," she corrected him.

He stared at the graceful green beauty numbly. And then it hit him.

 _She_ was loose.

She was loose, she was coming and he needed a plan. Rocket's mind was already assessing the situation coldly. He weighed the facts and considered his options, calculating just how quickly he could finish that new invention he'd been working on – he was going to need it.

His body, on the other hand, wasn't doing so great. His muscles were cramp tight and his teeth were chattering uncontrollably. He was cold, so cold, but his gut was boiling, burning him up on the inside. He flexed his jaws to try and get the trembling under control. He scrunched his eyes shut, hoping to focus all that nervous energy into something useful.

He realized he was biting down on something soft and warm and startled violently when he saw that it was Quill's forearm.

"Easy, buddy, easy..." Pete was whispering over and over, his free hand held up and away in surrender. "I didn't mean any of it, all right?"

That was when he noticed that he had one of his hand-cannons gripped in both paws, the weapon primed and whining with built up energy. Drax had come from somewhere and was busy tracing those intricate little patterns of his all over the fur on the top of Rocket's head. The big oaf's methodical scratching was probably the only thing saving Peter from a gaping hole in his sternum.

Rocket powered down the weapon and, gingerly, released Pete's arm.

"Any of what?" he asked suspiciously.

Drax opened his mouth to reply, but Mantis leaned in and immediately touched his arm. For a long moment, the two seemed to be having a silent conversation.

"I understand," the disgruntled Drax said finally, then fixed her with a stern frown. "Don't ever do that again."

The green woman nodded serenely, unruffled by the big man's threatening tone. Well, the fact that she could toss him over her shoulder with minimum effort probably had something to do with it.

Everyone was still tense, however. Something had happened and Rocket had missed it.

"Uhh, guys... Wha'd I do?" he asked warily.

Careful to avoid looking at its warped and distorted surface, Rocket checked his workbench. He did not remember touching it since _the incident_... but the prototype was mostly finished. Without inspecting the thing, he knew that it worked. Now all he needed was a plan.

"Nothing irreversible," was Mantis' cryptic reply and, for the first time, he noticed that she had a black eye and a deep cut just above her left eye.

Her arms were covered in teeth marks.

Rocket backed away from her, wondering if he should wish he could remember what exactly he'd done.

"All right, so," Pete spoke up, "what's the plan?"

Looking around, Rocket saw that the whole team was assembled, arranged in a 'jackass circle' as Pete had dubbed it. The only thing that spoiled the effect a little was the presence of the infernal bounty hunter, though he had the sense not to try and join the actual inner circle.

"We take her out," Gamora said at once.

Rocket gaped.

"She can only do so many things at once," Drax added. "We should distract her and then one of us should kill her."

"That won't work! She'll know! She'll _know_!" Rocket groaned, pulling at his ears. "She'll start killin' before any one of ya even got close!"

"Mantis can shield us from her," Gamora countered.

"Out in the physical world, she no longer has the advantage she had over us inside the mindscape," the telepath nodded her agreement. "I should be able to shield you to some extent."

"And me? What will I do?" the dumb bounty hunter, Cassidy, asked, timidly raising his hand.

Rocket made a face and rolled his eyes openly.

"I don't trust you," he remarked with a scowl. "You just make sure you stay the hell away from Groot!"

The idiot had the nerve to look hurt.

"You stay with the ship," Gamora suggested, "keep a lookout for the Nova Corps."

As an ex-bounty hunter, Rocket could see why this didn't make Cassidy feel any better. He at least had enough brains to shut up and do as he was told. The risk of him slipping away with the Milano was practically nonexistent, anyway - the hull was still riddled with holes, despite the crew's valiant and ongoing patch job. But there was still one problem with that...

"No frickin' way!" Rocket objected, resisting the urge to jump to his feet. " _Groot's_ staying on the ship – he can't fight the way he is now."

The sapling waved from where his pot rested in Gamora's hands. Rocket sighed. The little twit couldn't even _talk_ yet, much less fight.

"Rocket's right," Peter agreed, "Groot stays behind. Besides, I've got an idea..."

"Oh, boy..." Rocket sighed, throwing up his hands, "here we go."

"Hey, man," Peter protested irritably, "that's not fair – you haven't even heard my plan yet!"

"Don't have to," Rocket retorted, fixing Quill with a flat stare, "'cause it obviously involves working together with _this_ glarknard!" He nodded his head in the direction of the bounty hunter.

"Does it involve killing the witch?" Drax asked eagerly. "Because then it is a good plan!"

"Well, I'm guessing pretty much _any_ plan's gonna involve _that_ , Drax _..._ " Peter pointed out sheepishly.

"That still doesn't make it a good plan!" Rocket shouted, dragging his palms down over his eyes as dramatically as he could.

Everyone started talking at once, but when Mantis cleared her throat, they fell silent, as if by reflex.

"We do not have many options here, Rocket," she said quietly, her hands folded daintily in her lap. "Perhaps we should hear Peter Quill out."

" _Thank_ you!" Peter exclaimed triumphantly. "Now, as I was saying..."

Rocket resigned himself to listen to this mad plan Quill basically seemed to be making up as he was going, only pausing for breath when he was sure Drax wouldn't interrupt him. When he finally ran down, he let the others pitch in, working out wrinkles and discussing possible back up plans.

Rocket held his peace. He was staring glumly into space. This wasn't going to work.

"Say, Rocket," Peter addressed him out of nowhere, "how many things can you think about at the same time?"

"W-What?" the raccoon started, confused.

"You've always been good at multitasking, right?" their leader elaborated, scratching thoughtfully at his stubble. "How many different things do you reckon you can think about at once?"

"Well…" Rocket dithered, picking at his ear. "Couple of hundred things, give or take. More if I push it…" Seeing their expressions of shock and disbelief, his ears folded back, emphasizing his frown of consternation. He crossed his arms defensively. "C'mon, that ain't normal?"

"What do you think, Mantis?" Peter asked smugly.

"That is sure to give any telepath a headache…" she agreed with a smile.

"Wait, you guys, what's normal for humies, then?" Rocket piped up, tail swishing in agitation at being ignored. "D'ast, what's it _like_ in those tiny brains of yers…!?"

"We can do this!" Peter enthused, still ignoring Rocket. "We turn her biggest strength into a weakness, take her out while she's confused. Piece of cake!"

"This will not be easy, Peter Quill," Mantis warned him.

"Oh, I know..." he replied, then tossed his head with a cocky grin that turned far too serious far too quickly. "Looks like this is just another suicide mission for the Guardians of the Galaxy. Live or die, we do it together."

The others nodded. Only Rocket said nothing, though his eyes spoke volumes. You _guys'll be doin' the dying. I'll be losing people._ He hung his head in defeat as they all filed out one by one to prepare. _Some things are worse than death._

"No use sitting here like this," he muttered to himself.

If this plan was to have any chance at some small margin of success, he had things to do. _Lots_ of things. Turning to the scattered tools and the project on his workbench, Rocket threw himself into the work.

* * *

All he had to do was act as if Cassidy was turning him over to Myra at gunpoint, until the others were ready to ambush her. The plan seemed pretty solid, even though it required Rocket to _not think about it_ for as long as it was to take... The main problem with that was that he needed to face that monster with nothing to hold on to. The minute he spared even a half-thought for the Guardians, he would be drawing her ire down on them and the dying would start.

He didn't think she would kill _him_. Well, not intentionally... But that thought didn't really scare him. No, what made him feel cold all over was the possibility that she might kill everyone he cared about and then keep him alive: her plaything for the remainder of his miserable little life, however short...

He shuddered.

A warm hand dropped a casual stroke on his head and he had to bite his lip not to jump out of his skin.

Scent identified the carefully affectionate touch as Peter Quill's. Still, the contact had registered before his other senses could catch up and his heart beat wildly despite the assurance that it was just Pete.

"Ya trying to gimme a flarking heart attack?" he huffed when he caught his breath.

"I asked if you're ready for this," Pete said matter-of-factly, as if that settled everything.

"Oh, you got no idea," the raccoon muttered under his breath.

Somehow, the warm hand knew to return and continue stroking his fur comfortingly. He sat there, simply absorbing the diplomatically gentle strokes and the inexplicable feeling of safety he felt right then, until a graceful figure appeared in the doorway.

"It is time," Mantis intoned solemnly.

Rocket stuck his hand into the pocket of his new jumpsuit and gripped the reassuring angular shape hidden within. He was more than ready.

He was _done_.

* * *

Myra was delighted, absolutely delighted, to have her cute little raccoon walk up to her, pretending to be at the mercy of the silly bounty hunter, his angry little friends waiting somewhere in the wings to swoop in and rescue him. She couldn't see them because that annoying _other_ one was hiding them. Myra had thought she was rid of that one, but then, things with antennae were always harder to kill, it seemed.

Irritation at having yet another rival fled as she focused her attention on little Rocket... He was thinking about so many things at once that it hurt to listen in on his thoughts for too long, but she managed to pick out the details of their plan and it was amusingly simple.

The bounty hunter, who had come marching Rocket up to the mansion, had stopped and now Rocket was approaching her alone at a slow but steady pace. She waited for him to come just within reach of her extended arm's length, then let him wonder for another few steps why she hadn't made a grab for him yet. She practically tasted his confusion as he took yet another hesitant step forward. And when she couldn't take it any longer, she let him take one last step... and elicited a surprised cry from him as she lunged suddenly, wrapping her tentacle-like metal arms around and around and around his small body, wrapping her insidious intentions _tightly_ around his mind like a spider web.

She reeled him in slowly. Tremors coursed through his furry body as she pulled him closer, closer, closer. His eyes were squeezed shut and his mind jittered like a red hot firebug on the verge of exploding.

She _felt_ more than heard the assault as her cute little raccoon's protectors suddenly seemed to appear out of thin air. They weren't real, of course. These were illusions sent by that _other_ one, meant to confuse her. With a disdained sniff, she pushed her awareness outward, enforced her will until the air around her solidified, forming a barrier to keep _them_ out, to keep Rocket _in_.

"No!" someone called out, rushing from their hiding place with weapons out. "Rocket!"

"For flark's sakes, Quill, stick to the krutackin' plan!" she heard Rocket hissing through clenched teeth.

But it was far too late.

'Quill' was a real one, not an illusion, made of bone and meat and blood. And since she was a monster... With a wicked smile, she prepared to make his head explode like an overripe melon.

"Watch, little Rocket," she whispered evilly, "this will be fantastic..."

"You got bigger problems, Toots," the raccoon grunted into to her chest.

He did something – he'd been hiding something in his pocket? – and an unpleasant electric jolt passed through her body. She found her arms locked around Rocket's warm body, unable to move – she could not even twitch her fingers.

"What are you doing, silly?" she giggled. "You know I'll never let go of you anyway!"

"Good," he growled with a vicious smile.

He twisted his hand inside his pocket and the distinct beeping sound of a timer running down echoed off the insides of her shield bubble.

"A bomb?" she frowned. "Well, I'll just—"

She reached in to disarm it – she knew these things, she'd seen Rocket do it in so many stolen memories – but this bomb was _different_. She could hear it, even see what it looked like through the mind's eye of the raccoon caught in her embrace, but she couldn't pinpoint it. It was like there was a blind spot inside his pocket. There was nothing there! But the timer was ticking.

Well, even if _she_ couldn't touch it, Rocket clearly could... She was about to mind control him into disarming it when he shot her another dark grin.

"Look inside my brain if ya want," he smiled grimly. "Ain't no way to switch it off. I couldn't if I _wanted_ to. Make me take off the casing and it explodes instantly. Either way, we go out together."

She tried using her will on the device in the wily raccoon's pocket, tried to wrench it from his hand and fling it away, but the thing was... slippery... like she couldn't hold it properly. She tried making a barrier around the bomb, but whatever her clever little raccoon had done, it prevented her from making it any closer than a hand-space away. It pushed her powers away like the wrong side of a magnet. There just was not enough space between her and Rocket to create a physical barrier that wide. And that strange, magnetic pulse he had tazed her with before prevented her from widening the gap at all.

"Rocket, what did you do!?" she shrieked in frustration and fear, the incessant beeping of the timer a death march counting down the seconds to the end. "WHAT DID YOU _DO_!?"

"Didya really think I'd put up with all yer glark and not learn a thing or two?" he laughed bitterly. "That's a little trick of my own, designed to keep _your_ kind out!"

"But—" a sob constricted her throat. "You'll die...!"

"Like I said, we go out together and you _leave my family alone_!"

Despair and outrage warred with one another inside Myra's heart. How could Rocket's own family sacrifice him just to punish _her_? How _could_ they? But as she raised her eyes from the deadly bundle of fur clamped tightly to her chest, she saw into their hearts, their emotions plain as day. They hadn't planned this, hadn't known. None of them wanted this. The too-pretty green woman Myra hated so much was weeping openly, calling Rocket's name and banging her fists against the barrier. None of them wanted this.

 _She_ didn't want this.

The thought of Rocket dying was too much to bear. Sparky's death replayed itself over and over in her mind. Pain overwhelmed her. So Myra did something she'd never tried before. Instead of trying to interfere with or touch the explosive, she opened herself up to it, took a deep breath and _pulled_.

* * *

The insane girl was blubbering like a little gargoyle as the timer counted down.

"Y-You love them this much?" she sobbed in a voice squeaky from crying.

It hadn't been too difficult to throw off any suspicion about the device he had in his pocket. All he had to do was feed her a few masked details from Quill's original plan; that made her confident enough not to dig below the surface.

She let him walk right up to her with the bomb in his frickin' hand.

What _was_ difficult, was the thought of leaving Groot behind without saying goodbye. What was difficult was seeing all their reactions: the look of hurt and betrayal in Drax's eyes, the helplessness on Pete's face when he realized what was happening, and having to watch Gamora try to claw her way through the barrier like a wild thing...

They still didn't get it.

They didn't understand that there was no other scenario where they all walked out alive. None. This was how things had to be.

Rocket tore his eyes away from his broken little family to give his tormentor one last vicious grin before the two of them went up in a glorious blaze together... and blinked in surprise. A sick feeling settled in the pit of his stomach when he saw that she was smiling. And... glowing?

"You can't die," she was murmuring, smiling a weird, uncharacteristically benevolent smile, "I love you too much to let you die."

Why the hell was she glowing? Did she have some sort of phasing ability he hadn't known about? Panic bit into his gut as he wondered if he'd just handed himself over to her on a silver platter.

She pressed her lips to his forehead, pulled back and stared at him, still with that strange, strange expression on her face. She somehow managed to look... if not beautiful, the least repulsive that he'd ever seen her.

"This is how much I love you..." she said softly, that strange, peaceful smile radiant on her pale face.

She became bright as the sun and his vision was filled with white, blinding light.

* * *

It was just like that nightmarish vision she'd had what seemed ages ago; Rocket trapped with some vile _creature_ and her pounding on an invisible wall, powerless to save him.

"I should have known something was up," Peter whispered numbly at her elbow, looking like a ghost. "I should have known when I couldn't find my gravity mines anywhere that he must've taken 'em apart or something."

Gamora stared.

She could have slapped him right then. Now was not the time for making theories! Now was the time to do something unexpected and charming and Star-Lordishly stupid to save the day. The cold, logical part of Gamora, deep down and at the back of her mind now, realized that she was in shock and being completely unreasonable. But logic had a hard time prevailing when your family was on the line.

"He's going to blow himself up, Peter!" she howled.

"I can _see_ that!" he shouted back and she stilled at the raw pain visible in Peter's eyes.

"Mantis!" she screamed. "Mantis, you have to save him!"

But when her eyes found Mantis, the green woman's eyes were wide in her head, her lips parted slightly.

"She... she is..."

"Behold! Something is happening within!" Drax spoke up hoarsely.

Gamora looked up to where Rocket had locked himself in the wicked child's embrace, just in time to see the girl light up like a firecracker. The light grew brighter and brighter until it filled the entire dome. The light became too brilliant to look at, but she found that she could not blink. She had to see Rocket one last time.

The light winked out. As soon as the barrier dropped, Gamora ran.

"Gamora!" Peter tried grabbing her arm, but she shrugged him off.

She wasn't sure what she was expecting to find, but, stumbling forward, she blinked furiously to dispel the after image burned into her vision, strained to see better. Were her eyes playing tricks on her? She thought she could make out a small, furry body hidden in the coils of those smoking metallic arms.

Her heart stuck in her throat.

As she staggered closer, she didn't even consider how it was possible that Rocket's fur and jacket weren't even a little bit singed when the girl herself was a pile of ash – aside from those metal arms, there was nothing left of her. She did not even register the approach of the others behind her. Her whole being was focused on the prone little raccoon that was miraculously still _here_.

Ever so gently, she turned the furry bundle over. Her heart skipped a beat as he groaned and opened his eyes.

"Whuthefffffriggin'... hell...?" he grunted hoarsely.

"You're alive, you're alive!" she cried, hugging him close, letting the tears slip freely down her cheeks. "Don't you ever scare us like that again! Ohh, you idiot! Don't tell me this was your plan...!"

"Yeah, I know, I suck, right...?" he coughed, barking a short laugh. "Can't even blow m'self up properly... Frickin' useless."

"First time I see you fail at blowing up _anything_ ," Peter grinned, kneeling beside her, "and, dude, I can't say I'm sorry about it."

"I feel like there's a prosthetic limb joke in here somewhere, but I'm too d'ast tired to find it..." the raccoon in her arms remarked wearily, eyeing the serpent-like appendages he'd been wrapped in not too long ago.

"Hey, don't strain yourself, now," Peter replied with a laugh, "I'm sure it'll come to you."

He reached out and ruffled the fur on top of Rocket's head and Gamora smiled.

* * *

When Nova finally did arrive, Peter and the rest of the Guardians were ready to present them with an exposed red honey smuggling ring. Apparently the stuff was used in the making of several dangerous and highly addictive drugs. They were able to hand over a list of buyers, pulled from Myra's dad's archives with the help of Rocket's expertise. Hell, they'd even had time to repair the Milano on their own, so when they finally left the planetoid as heroes, the Nova Corps was nothing more than a glorified escort.

Though he was arrested, Cassidy was given a reduced sentence, because, according to the official story, he'd helped the Guardians with their mission. Off the record, Peter and his crew knew that the only reason the ex-bounty hunter wasn't looking at serious jail time was because Rocket had announced that Groot had forgiven him.

Peter knew better than to inquire too closely about how Rocket could tell, as little Groot had not yet grown enough to talk.

The Guardians were handsomely rewarded for their efforts and they unanimously decided to spend their money on a much-needed vacation. However, Rocket soon became restless, so Mantis and the Guardians went their separate ways and the team went back to their usual routine not long after.

* * *

Gamora startled awake from one of those almost-nightmares she had some nights.

Of necessity, she had conditioned herself to wake whenever certain things surfaced from her subconscious, but that was not what had wakened her tonight. There was a cold, wet nose in the crook of her neck and two fluffy arms hugging her bicep just below the shoulder. His even breathing told her that the raccoon wrapped around her arm was fast asleep.

Peter and Drax had both warned her about the sleep-walking. Well, Drax had confided in her, feeling for some strange reason that she should be informed about the raccoon's nightly activities. As for Peter, she'd seen Rocket stagger out of his room looking like the world's doziest raccoon just come out of hibernation, and Peter had explained in hushed tones that it seemed to be a sort of coping mechanism. Apparently, Rocket had been talking in his sleep, too, while snuggling up to Peter's arm. He said it was almost like the raccoon felt compelled to check on them, to make sure they were still there.

Rocket was not talking now, just snoring softly. And drooling.

Smiling fondly, Gamora moved to pet him. He groped blindly at her hand and stuck her thumb in his mouth. Her fond smile became wistful as he suckled her finger almost desperately. She pressed her forehead to his and vowed, as she did every night when he came to her like this, to protect her mismatched little family to the very end.


	20. Epilogue

**Author's Note:** **It took me two whole years to finish this story and I just want to say thanks again to everyone for taking the time to read it all the way to the very end!**

 **I know I marked this story as complete, but then I had something to add.**

* * *

Rocket woke with a silent scream caught in his throat.

He could still feel the wet heat of blood on his hands, see the faraway stare of death in eyes bright with life not long before. He could just hear _her_ laughing as she assured him that he would be hers and hers alone, that she would make him kill them all one by one, everyone he cared about.

He knew _she_ was dead and gone. He knew she could not control him any more, but his heart was pounding so loud in his ears and his throat was so dry and his head felt ready to burst—

And he found himself standing in front of Quill's door. Of course Peter was still alive. It had only been a dream, after all. But what if he had been sleepwalking. What if he really...

He opened the door and jumped up onto the bed breathlessly. The man who called himself Star-Lord was draped across his bunk, limbs splayed wide, mouth agape, snoring blissfully. Shivering just a bit, Rocket plunked himself down beside the humie and latched on to the big, strong upper arm like his little life depended on it. In a way, it did. The raccoon didn't know what he would do if this man, or any of the rest of his adoptive family were to disappear. He would never say it out loud, but the thought left him with an immense, scarily empty hole in his insides.

Normally, the body warmth and easy breathing of the larger being so close by was enough to put him right to sleep, but not tonight. Tonight, he lay there clinging to Pete's arm, staring, unseeing, at the ceiling.

Rocket wished Quill had gone to bed with his headphones on, the way he sometimes did. The tired raccoon could have swiped the walkman and the sweet, otherworldly tunes could have soothed him to a distant place, far away from reality. As things were, he didn't relish digging through the man's stuff. Quill wasn't a light sleeper, but Rocket was not about to do something that might wake him. He wasn't about to put himself up for a round of the humie's serious heart-to-heart talks – not on purpose.

So he stayed still, waiting, waiting, waiting for the ever elusive sleep to catch up with him. But it would not come. If only there was a way for him to simply switch himself off...

 _Aww, crap...  
_  
As soon as he had that thought, he could not dismiss it again. There _was_ something, but... For a while he lay gnashing his teeth, gripping Peter's arm like that could somehow make him stay. Finally, with a frustrated grunt, he surrendered, pushed himself up and trudged on back to his own room.

He dreamed of his first glimpse of the Galacian Wall, lying in a terrified, quivering heap among all the useless things no one wanted anymore and he twitched restlessly in his sleep. But after that, his dreams were mercifully empty. The next morning, he slept well into his shift. No one tried to wake him, but if anyone had, they would have been worried.

When Gamora found him yawning and blinking blearily in the hallway, she urged him to have breakfast, but he declined. He was definitely not hungry. If she had known to check under his bunk, she would have seen the empty jars accumulated there over the span of several sleepless nights and she would have been worried.

Rocket wasn't too worried. At least his d'ast head no longer hurt.


End file.
